#and sometimes could entail binding your breasts

[marzipanandminutiae]

There were so many dramatic changes in women's clothing in the 1920s that coincided with peaks in ongoing fights for our rights that the two end up conflated. Such that nobody wants to discuss any flaws in it- as exist in any clothing system -because it's Liberation FashionTM (spoiler: it's not; it's just another era of style )

One thing that comes to mind is: what about women who just didn't like the fashion? Obviously they would still have to wear at some degree, because that was an element of respectability back then. But I think when the question comes up, everyone immediately jumps to the idea of women who were more conservative and afraid of any sort of change. I am wanting to know more about the women who just… Thought it was ugly. Or uncomfortable, or impractical, for whatever reason. You don't really hear about them as much, but they surely must've existed

I guess nobody wants to acknowledge them because they're so busy waxing rhapsodical about a clothing style they have no more worn than the garments that came before it, and the comfort of which they have as little clue about as a Gibson girl's ballgown

("but it's not that different from modern clothes!" most people haven't tried it with the corsets/girdles and binders though. which a lot of women wore- I wouldn't necessarily say "most" for the binders but girdles- again, often still called corsets -remained VERY popular. despite being just shapewear at this point with no support functions)

[ezradogteeth]

heyo james, I've got a question for ya :) (pls feel free to not answer if it's too personal!)

So, I've finally started making calls to get top surgery, and I was really excited! like wow this thing I've been looking forward to for years is finally gonna happen, i'll get to wear shirts without having to constantly think about how i look, etc.

but then I started thinking more about it (i guess because its becoming more Real?), and I'm more conflicted about getting rid of my chest. like, hairy tits go kinda hard actually, and like sensory wise they are fun for stimming. plus i feel INFINITE BUTCH SWAG with them. if it was just me by myself forever, I feel like I could be happy with them, but I also find myself yearning for like, being able to be shirtless in public and also having a smooth surface to run my hands down. stuff like that. (also especially the "not worrying about how I look when i put on a t-shirt thing)

so here's my question: I remember you making a comic about how happy you were to have had top surgery, even if u still missed your old chest sometimes, or felt conflicted about it. what do u miss about your old chest? do you ever feel dyphoric with ur current chest? if u have any other insights or things to say, pls do

(p.s. i am considering non-flat surgery, but i don't know how i feel abt that yet because currently I think it'd be the worst of both worlds for me. i don't think the results would be what i actually want: flat chest that's just slightly rounded across the whole thing so it's soft and kinda andro looking)

hi moth yayyy so exciting!! ty for ur question!! longish answer so its under the cut

first i wanted to say that when i first decided to look into having top surgery, after my consultation, i got wigged out and decided to hold off on it for a while. talking to the surgeon made me Really understand that it is a major surgery and everything that entails. a lot of it freaked me out and i ended up deciding to go for it almost a year after that, and i'm glad i took that time to reconsider.

second, i totally relate to the butch swag thing and sensory thing. since having top surgery i've seen a lot more art and photos and people irl who are transmasc/genderqueer with boobs, much more than i did pre-op, and it makes me feel very happy and i wish i saw more of it back then bc it wouldve made me feel a lot better.

i do think that inherently, i would have been able to make peace with my body as is and not had surgery. i was never super dysphoric about my chest and i liked having partners who found it attractive. like you said, if it was just me by myself, or if i was only ever around people who wouldn't see me having boobs as contradictory to me passing as male, i wouldn'tve minded as much.

but unfortunately it doesn't exist in a vacuum like that. the body is a public form, it's how you engage with the world. similar to what you said, i wanted to be able to be shirtless, not wear a binder, be able to pass sometimes, etc. i also wanted the sensory experience of like, laying down flat on my chest, or running without breasts moving which was always uncomfortable for me esp since i hated wearing bras.

i don't feel dysphoric about my current chest, it's more like a passing wistfulness for how my chest used to be or would've been now if i hadn't had surgery. sometimes it's just the feeling of absentmindedly holding my own boob i miss lol. since i had surgery pretty young there's things i feel like i might've missed out on. i live in a wayyy more transsexual ass place now where it's way more normal for a man to have, and show off, breasts, and for it to be attractive, and not negate his identity at all. and i think i would've slayyed like that. alas! on the day to day though, i've also been working more physical jobs where i want to pass as male, so binding would have been very uncomfortable and i'm glad i don't have to do it. and i get a ton of euphoria from being flat chested, and i'm lucky to be around people who find post-op transmasc chests cool and attractive. as much as i liked having partners be attracted to my chest pre-op, i've also learned that there Are people out there who find flat chests just as attractive, and i love having partners who are attracted to the masculinity of my body, because previously i'd often felt like i had to be feminine to be attractive

and re: a non-flat surgery option, i do think it's something to look into! i never really considered it cuz for me it wasn't really the size of my chest that mattered, more like entirely having breasts or not, and i didn't want to go thru the whole ordeal of surgery just to be dysphoric again or end up wanting to get a flat chest later on - though many people do get a reduction/semi-flat surgery and later have full top surgery and it's totally cool!!!

feel free to send a follow up if i didn't answer something in particular or you want me to elaborate on anything ^_^

[readitnreap]

Blood Lines Clean Chapter 12 Uploaded!

It had only been three weeks since Terzo was pulled off stage. Sister Imperator and the Cardinal showed up not long after and everything since has been a disaster.

The ghouls and the Ministry adapt to a new headliner for Project Ghost while Terzo uncovers conspiracies running long and deep.

Read the full thing here on A03, Chapter 12 after the cut.

The Ministry and the Abbey were separated by a full acre of land. It was often rented out for weddings, parties, fairs—all manner of things. Fees either went to charity or directly to the Church, depending on who was in charge of accounting at the time. 

On the other side of the Ministry, connected by a hallway of mixed design, was a more modern looking building. Administrative center for the Church of Satan, book keeping of the non-religious kind, outreach, planning, a large gift shop���everything that kept the Church running. It was a three floor white box with its exterior walls spray painted by local graffiti gangs. 

Copia was fairly familiar with this portion of the Church. His duties as Cardinal often crossed over with administrative work so he had learned the lay of the land as it were. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t pictured his meeting about Project Ghost in the upper conference room, but he felt out of place quite suddenly.

The Cardinal tapped at his mug, a beat he was sure but no song played in his mind. The tapping was purely a release for his anxiety and nerves. He glanced just slightly to the side. As Imperator shuffled and reshuffled her paperwork, Mr.Saltarian sat silently beside Copia and the Cardinal could only read annoyance on his face. 

“So uh,” Copia spoke up in what he hoped was a casual tone, “did you catch the game last night?”

Sister Imperator and Saltarian both looked at Copia curiously. The sister sighed with pointed volume and checked her watch. Saltarian raised an eyebrow, turning to face the Cardinal.

“Which one?” he asked, unamused.

“Any?” Copia said with a shrug, smiling and hoping it came across as a joke. It did not. He could feel Saltarian’s eyes on him as he shifted in his seat. 

“And what happened to your face?” Saltarian gestured vaguely at the purple bruising showing through Copia’s black makeup. The swelling in the other man’s lip making his voice just slightly slurred. 

“Oh just a little thing,” the Cardinal tried to play it off, reaching down to fiddle with the sash on his cassock. 

“Did you get the upper hand, at least?” Saltarian pressed, narrowing his eyes slightly.

“Di certo!” Copia laughed nervously. He could hear Imperator’s grip on her papers tighten from across the table.

“A man of your status should be able to defend himself,” Saltarian said in a voice that was not exactly insulting. “I’ll teach you sometime.”

Copia’s mind was still stuck on ‘a man of your status’. Was that a compliment? Saltarian was an important part of running the Church—a compliment from him was high praise indeed! 

“Damnit, where is that man?” Imperator hissed, again checking her watch. “I told him 5pm on the dot, made him repeat it to me.”

“I could go grab—” the Cardinal said as he started to stand. Imperator snapped her fingers and pointed down. Copia sat immediately.

“No, I’m not having anyone else wandering off. Stay here, I’ll call for a Sibling of Sin to bring him here.”

“Go-good idea,” Copia muttered, returning to tapping his cup and the table in turn. Saltarian reached over and slapped the hand closest to him after only a few seconds. Copia folded his hands in his lap as Imperator stood and pressed her phone to her ear.

“How long are you in the area?” Copia tried again, small talk not being among his talents. 

“Only a few days. I’m just here for the Binding Ritual, then I have a few personal matters to attend to elsewhere,” Saltarian reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his own phone.

“I keep hearing about this Binding Ritual,” Copia said as he tilted his head to watch Saltarian’s screen. “What does it entail? I don’t think I’ve come across it in my studies,” his voice dropped a little as Saltarian opened Solitaire.

“You won’t find it in a publicly available book,” Saltarian whispered loudly over the sound of shuffling cards. “It’s in a prized book, an artifact of the Church. Only the Papa may handle it or read it.”

“Oh, how many times have you seen this ritual?” Copia watched as Saltarian moved quickly through the first few steps of his game. “Red two on red ace, here.”

“Diamonds, got it,” selecting the indicated cards the man thought a moment, “I’ve seen the ritual twice. Participated once. I think the Sister intends to have me participate for you.”

“Oh that’s good. I’m—I admit I’m a little nervous so—having a friendly face…” Copia’s voice drifted off. Saltarian now seemed engrossed in his game. The Cardinal glanced up only to catch a look of disbelief on Imperator’s face. 

“W-wait just one minute, Sibling,” Imperator demanded, putting her phone on speaker. “Say that again please?” she requested, placing the phone on the table mid-way between herself and the men. Copia and Saltarian leaned in a little.

“I just—I think he did fully intend to be there on time, Sister,” the voice on the other end of the line said breathlessly. “His sermon out here—the uh special senior service he scheduled—it’s just gotten a little out of hand. He wasn’t counting on that, maybe? We certainly weren’t!”

“Elaborate.”

“Well he—the band ghouls, some of them—have started to interfere. They’re… I don’t think I can honestly describe it, Sister. You have to see it for yourself. We’re doing everything we can to control it but there’s only so many of us: And these seniors are harder to herd than we anticipated!”

“Never underestimate the elderly,” Imperator sighed. “I’m on my way with Saltarian and the Cardinal. Keep trying.”

“Y-yes Sister, of course!” 

Imperator ended the call slowly, placing one hand on her hip and massaging her temples with the other. “I apologize for the delay and inconvenience, Saltarian.”

“Who could have predicted the band ghouls would intercept and delay Nihil from this meeting?” Saltarian said, and Copia was fairly certain he heard a hint of sarcasm. He stood and the Cardinal followed suit. 

“This is a private ritual then, I assume?” Copia asked as the trio stepped into the elevator at the end of the hall.

“Yes. Terzo has made a request to be present but I have not yet decided if I think that’s a good idea,” Imperator smashed the button to the ground floor as if it owed her a great sum of money.

“What could it hurt?” Copia said with a shrug. He received looks of tired confusion from the other passengers.

“Have you told him what the Binding Ritual actually is?” Saltarian asked the Sister.

“I meant to but things kept getting in my way. I supposed I thought the name gave it away.”

“No wonder you need my help.”

“Excuse me?”

“This Ritual is to bind the ghouls to you, Cardinal.” Saltarian said, ignoring Imperator’s dark look. “Currently they are bound to Terzo, so having him there may complicate things.”

“Ah—but I am not Papa,” Copia said fretfully, following behind as they stepped out of the elevator. “Don’t the ghouls belong to the Papa?”

“Yes, and no,” Imperator sighed. “Papa has always had at least one ghoul bound to him upon his ascent. They act as… a guardian devil. This has been true since the founding of the Church.”

“These ghouls are different, they’re here specifically to aid with Project Ghoul. A gift from the Dark Lord himself. They have different… abilities, behave better, and are generally more easy to control.”

“Oh, yes I suppose that makes sense,” Copia nodded, feeling a rock tossing in his stomach painfully. “So Brother Teroz’s ghouls will be—”

“Yours,” Imperator glanced over her shoulder at Copia. 

The hallways seemed to go by in a flash. Copia kept pace with Imperator and Saltarian but whatever words they spoke after that were lost to him. No wonder Terzo was so upset, so betrayed. Copia had seen two Rituals live and the bond between the Third and his ghouls was palpable. It seemed to Copia like this Binding would be like forcing Terzo to say goodbye to his friends. 

Would the ghouls even like Copia? He was certainly no Terzo. He hadn’t even started to consider these things. Imperator had made it seem like his job in this would be so simple—sing. It seemed like he’d not asked the right questions.

Copia knew they were getting close as they turned a corner and screams, laughter and various other sounds began assaulting them. He could hear Imperator cursing under her breath. She picked up her pace a little but Saltarian did not. The Cardinal moved to walk beside the other man.

“Do you have much experience with the ghouls?” Saltarian asked as Imperator grabbed the arm of a Sister at the door to the yards. The Sister grabbed back in a panic and began wailing about trying her best.

“No, not much at all. I mean—I have seen them here at the Ministry and in Ritual. I have not—spoken with them,” Copia tried to keep the unease from his voice, his hands wringing at his waist.

“Huh, well, you’re in for a surprise.”

Saltarian’s words could not have had a bigger impact if he’d planned it. The moment his words hit Copia the doors opened and the yards came into view: Chaos. A few comfortable chairs had been set up in rows (mock pews) in front of a cheesy old podium. A table of snacks and finger sandwiches lined the rear of the cleared area. The whole thing was far too close to the large Baphomet fountain.

There were at least two dozen senior congregation members that Copia did not recognize. They were all in various stages of active worship… or seizure. The Siblings in attendance were trying to corral them and make sense of things. 

Nihil himself stood in front of the podium, an elder woman kneeling before him with his hand on her forehead. He looked to be performing an old school adorcism on the woman. Whether or not she believed it was working, she was most definitely having some kind of experience. She writhed like a belly dancer fourty years her junior and the congregation cheered her on.

There were also ghouls scattered about, a combination of a dense fog, the road in the distance on a hot summer day, and an actual physical human being. They were gently interfering and honestly did seem to be out for nothing but chaos. One ghoul in particular was leading a man away from the chairs towards the fountain.

“Stop that one,” Imperator growled to the Sister who had just greeted them. Sobbing the young girl darted off to attempt just that. 

Copia strained his neck to watch as the ghoul instructed the man to rest on the side of the fountain. With quickly whispered instructions from the ghoul, the man dipped his fingers into the cool water. The ghoul immediately vanished as the Sister neared and thrust her hands forward. The damage, however, had been done. 

“It’s wine!” the man shouted suddenly, looking at the ripples of his touch as they spilled maroon into the fountain water. “I-I turned the water to wine!” he was appropriately mortified and so did the only thing he could think to do—jumped into the fountain. He waded over the stream of wine pouring from Baphomet’s left breast. As the Sister hiked up her habit and climbed in after him the old man tilted his head back and gorged himself.

Copia looked to Saltarian, stunned.

“They’re… performing miracles so Nihil is fixing them with adorcism,” the man sighed and ran a hand down his face. “I really thought things were getting better around here.”

Copia wrung his hands again, the feeling of leather warping calmed his stomach. They continued to watch as Imperator stalked down the isle dangerously. Nihil met her eyes and began looking around for a savior, an excuse, or a quick exit.

“And I’m—to control those things?” Copia asked with a grimace as another ghoul popped up, this time sitting next to a man in the back. This man was patting his pockets desperately.

“I lost my damned classes again,” the old man wailed, “I’m blind without ‘em!” The glasses were plainly hanging from a chain at his neck. The ghoul leaned across the old man and poked at his neighbor. When he’d gotten the attention of the even older woman, the ghoul indicated the glasses.

“Yer not blind an’ ya didn’t lose yer glasses,” the old woman sighed in annoyance. She reached over and slipped his glasses onto his face.

“I—I’m not blind? She restored my vision! Miracle!” the man pointed accusingly at his neighbor, shouting with venom.

The seated ghoul turned and immediately met Copia’s eyes. The Cardinal felt a shock of cold run up his spine. He took a worried step backwards. The ghoul winked at him and then vanished. 

“Enough! For Lucifer’s sake, ENOUGH!” Bellowed Imperator as she grabbed Nihil’s arm roughly and turned to address those gathered. Everyone but the woman being adorcised listened. Imperator sighed down at her.

“Get up, Gertrude. Nihil hasn’t made a woman move like that in over thirty years.” Copia heard Saltarian stifle a laugh. He crooked a small grin at the other man. “I am very sorry but this debacle is over. Please see a Sibling of Sin to be escorted off site… and receive medical attention if needed.”

Copia’s grin remained as Imperator pulled Nihil away like a disobedient child. It was a grip and a stance the Cardinal knew well and it made him feel better to see someone else on the receiving end. Plus Nihil was pouting like an infant. The Cardinal and Saltarian stood up a bit straighter as Nihil approached however.

“Papa,” Saltarian said with a nod of his head.

“Papa,” Copia agreed, following suit.

“I was just having a bit of fun,” Nihil said after nodding to the men. He scrunched up his face and eyed Imperator. “Am I not allowed to have fun now?”

“We can talk about this later, and we will talk about it later,” Imperator threatened and all three men felt the air temperature drop about five degrees. “Right now we have more pressing matters to attend to. Ironically they are directly related to this mess and those infernal ghouls.”

“Eh?” Nihil pressed as the four walked back inside, leaving the mess and the discombobulated elders to the Siblings.

“The Binding Ritual?” Saltarian offered, seeing that Imperator was seconds away from a full scale explosion. 

“Right now?” Nihil groaned, patting his pockets, “I don’t have the uh… stuff. I can in ten minutes. Five if Sister will—”

“Oh for the love of,” Imperator sighed, “no, Nihil. We are scheduled to have a meeting regarding the Ritual. I guess that’s kind of moot now though,” she shook her head and crossed her arms over her chest.

The four came to a stop in a large main hallway. Copia steepled his hands together as Nihil fixed him with a judging look. Saltarian checked his watch.

“We’ll meet tomorrow night, 11 on the dot. Nihil—on the dot.”

“Wh–what?” Copia interrupted, “is there a rush?”

“Yes, Cardinal, you saw the state of them just now,” Imperator indicated the yards beyond. “They need to be restrained again, calmed back down, under someone’s thumb who isn’t too caught up in their own ego to care.”

“But—I’m not prepared. I don’t know anything about—” Copia continued, feeling his throat tighten a little. Saltarian’s hand suddenly on his shoulder snapped him out of a nearing panic attack. 

“Really you don’t need to prepare or bring anything, just yourself—”

“--and a clothes you don’t mind getting ruined—” Nihil grumbled. Copia fixed him with a worried look.

“--everything will be explained as we go,” Saltarian removed his hand. 

“What exactly is my part in this Ritual?” Copia turned his attention mostly to Imperator.

“Well, Cardinal—” she started cautiously, giving Saltarian a look Copia could not decipher.

“You are the Ritual, boy,” Nihil snorted. “Just gotta make sure you have what it takes in the end. All we’re gonna do is hope you don’t die.”

Copia felt the color drain from his face. He lifted his eyebrows.

“M-mi scusi?”

“There’s nothing we can do about it, Copia, things are going south faster than anticipated this time. Between the ceremonies the ghouls kind of…” Imperator waved her hand in the air, searching.

“Fall apart?” Saltarian suggested. Imperator nodded.

“Good enough. The longer we wait the more we risk losing them, which means we’d then have to summon more and that is an entirely different matter. The Binding Ritual will just tie the current ghouls to you since Terzo’s hold is slipping since his demotion.”

“I still don’t–” Copia pleaded, clasping his hands together as Nihil began to pick ear wax from his left ear, studying a piece between his fingers before flicking it against the wall or floor.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. Tomorrow night at 11pm in the blood letting sanctuary.”

“Blood letting?!”

[honeyandbloodpoetry]

Gender Thoughts Pt 1 and 2

The first time I put a binder on, a little under a week ago, I felt euphoric. Ever since I hit puberty very early on, I felt uncomfortable with my breasts. They never felt right on me, and even though I’ve come to love them sometimes, they still don’t always feel like they match up. I hated how people always looked at them, pointed out how much they showed in low cut shirts when I never even noticed they were--or even wanted them to. They were just there. I liked the way low cut shirts feel and look on me, I just can’t help these giant sacks of flesh that sit on my chest. 

Except...now I can! I ran my hands over my smooth chest, feeling bright. I looked into the mirror, and felt something warm wash over me. I put on my new masculine clothes, letting my partner clip on my new suspenders. I realized that I was shaking as I looked at myself again… I looked like a boy. I felt like a boy. Like a man. And I liked it. I wanted it. Admitting that to myself was like coming home. 

I remember being in sixth grade, walking around the track for my civil air patrol class. I had been slotted in with the rest of the girls, the boys walking ahead of us. I remember feeling uncomfortable being shoved in with only girls, and looking at the gaggle of boys ahead. The exact thought that whispered in my brain was “I wish I was a boy. I want to be like them, with them.” I never forgot that moment, and how strange it made me feel. How it was easier to shake that thought away, and dismiss those feelings. Except they never really left, did they? 

I remember sitting on my bed, crying with my best friend kneeling in front of me. I remember telling her how I didn’t like feeling like a woman all the time. That I wished I could be a black shadow, monstrous, androdynous. Specifically like Venom. She took my hand, did my makeup all in black and helped me pick out the perfect black outfit to achieve that dark, gothic look. I was so incredibly happy and validated. But I still felt like something was missing. 

I remember going into an Adam and Eve for laugh, not expecting much since I am an asexual with a low libido. I remember seeing packers and feeling my chest tighten. I never liked my genitalia--I had wished for a cloaca or something akin to that, but since that was biologically impossible for a human… I sometimes wished I had the opposite of a vagina. I frequently imagined what it would be like to have a penis. I frequently lamented the fact that I didn’t have one. I took the box up to the counter to ask some questions, my dress swishing as I went. The cashier told me it was for trans people only, and a girl like me couldn’t have it. She didn’t know what asexuality was, and had tried polyamory once but decided it was bad when her girlfriend kissed her boyfriend. I was upset, disheartened, and left the store empty handed feeling frustrated and lost.

I remember finally cutting the long, curly locks that had frustrated and imprisoned me for so long. Seeing all of my hair fall to the floor, staring into the mirror as the barber buzzed the back of my head… It made me want to cry tears of joy. It was the first time in my entire life that I had looked at my hair and was happy. The first time I could look in the mirror and feel like myself. Then I remember wanting to go shorter, and my barber encouraging me to keep it a little longer so I didn’t look manly, so I could still be soft and feminine. The way my stomach dropped and the sick feeling in my chest only increased when he began to make fun of the gay men who came down the street near his favorite restaurant. I never saw that barber again. I instead found a nice local place down the road from my apartment, where the kind lady cut it all off without question, other than “Why?” and accepted my warm “It makes me happy. It makes me feel beautiful.” 

But wearing that binder for the first time? It was as if a beam of light had funneled its way directly into my heart. I felt like a handsome man, with just a little bit of striking man boob, and it felt so right. My partner called me a dashing boy and my heart began to race. I still feel his hand tracing my jawline as he called me handsome, and the butterflies it sent up through my belly, even after more than eleven years. 

I love my partner--he identifies as agender and primarily masculine, and has been on the lookout for a good pair of size thirteen shoes to wear with a dress. They also wear joggers and flip flops and graphic tees and can’t seem to stop talking about the ocean and outer space. They’re probably one of my biggest inspirations for finding myself, and being authentically me. 

I’m not super sure who or what I am right now. I’m still figuring that out, but I’m pretty sure I’m somewhere between agender and genderfluid. I feel like me more than anything else, but all pronouns make me feel good. I feel like all of them and none of them at once, but I swing between wanting to be feminine and masculine pretty strongly, though I enjoy being masculine most of all--even when I’m wearing dresses and pink. I feel like a beautiful person in a dress or a button down, no matter what gender I feel like today or tomorrow. 

I am me. And I am one dashing boy, and one beautiful girl. 

4 July 2021

XXX

Since first writing this little essay, I’ve been doing a lot more examination of my gender. I have come to the conclusion that I am transmasc and nonbinary, and am shaky on the title of genderfluid. I am feeling less and less like a woman--if anything, occasionally adjacent to a woman rather than actually being one. I love feeling like and presenting as a man. I have my first appointment with a gender services doctor at my local community clinic for consultation on starting hrt testosterone. I am planning to start with low dose first, and see how I feel. 

I am still unsure of my exact identity, but I have found great euphoria with being and presenting as a man. I love being a man and everything that entails. I have loved myself like never before. Being with my partner is amazing, and he has been endlessly supportive--even recounting little things they had noticed throughout the years. One of the funniest being that I only ever referred to my body parts--my belly, hands, hair, genitalia--with masculine pronouns. I always seemed to see my body as male even if I had a certain sort of dissonance from it. 

Coming out has been difficult. I have had both positive and negative experiences from it. I have been told going on testosterone would be self harm, and that I can’t be something I’m not. I’ve had coworkers I trusted out me without my permission. But I have also had positive affirmation, polite questions, and discussions. I am terrified to tell my mother and her boyfriend--I have no idea how they will react and am terrified that I will be disrespected and disowned. 

But I am prepared to do whatever it takes to be my happiest and most authentic self. 

I have been binding a lot more often, wearing sports bras for long shifts at work, and occasionally going without either when I feel like letting my man boobs hang free. I’ve had the delightful experience of going to a men’s big and tall store and finally wearing pants. I grew up as a fat girl and felt as if I had to perform high femininity to be taken seriously and be treated well--and had been told by someone I trusted that I was too fat to wear pants, which I heavily internalized. So I had completely cast them away in favor of dresses and skirts, bows and gaudy jewelry. Realizing that I could wear pants was...totally wild. That I could be comfortable and look good in pants and shorts, and that it didn’t matter what people did or thought of me was life changing. Maybe I’ll feel like being feminine again someday, but right now this masculinity and masculine clothing, with perhaps the added spice of funky earrings, feels like home. 

I also grew up autistic and with PCOS, both which I think have affected my gender identity. Being autistic, I truly struggled to connect to others socially, and especially to understand societal norms. Being a proper woman felt like I was making up for everything else I was lacking--I may have been awkward, semi-verbal and weird with no friends, but at least I was cute and girlish. I never connected to womanhood though, and always felt out of place no matter how hard I tried. With PCOS, I had heightened testosterone, which meant wider breasts and shoulders, a lack of periods, and excessive body hair. I recall the endocrinologist asking high school age me if I had excessive body hair around my stomach, breasts, etc. and my mother jumping to say no I didn’t...even though I did. I remember suddenly feeling very self aware and ashamed of something completely natural, and even something I started to enjoy. I started shaving my entire body then. 

I even remember being in middle school, and thinking nothing of my hairy legs. In fact, I loved my body hair and how it felt. A rude girl began making fun of me though, tutting her tongue as she cooed, “Aw, does your mommy not let you shave?” Among other things, all throughout many years of severe bullying and abuse. I remember feeling ashamed, but not knowing why, and immediately shaving my legs, covering them in nicks from my shaky and unsteady hands, that same night. 

So many things set me back in my gender expression. So many things contributed to me willful ignorance and denial. I remember wanting to be butch, and everyone in my life laughing at me and saying I was too soft for that. That sweet, sharp ache in my chest. I remember going to a salad bar with my mother, wearing a button up and telling her I wanted to wear some more boyish clothes around that same time--I had already told her that I was bi sometime earlier. I remember her lip curling, looking uncomfortable, and telling me that I better not become one of those boy girls. My late father was very vocal in denouncing homosexuality and specifically men loving men--something which always sat horribly wrong with me on a deeper level. 

I think I might ending up being a trans man. I am still unsure and figuring myself out, but I struggle greatly with the autistic need for sameness vs. the trans need for change. My sapphic love of women has always been very important to me, and fully becoming a man rather than genderfluid is scary for that very reason. I am still navigating my identity and what it means to me and my reality--but no matter what, being a man, being masculine is integral to who I am. 

I was called a “sir” at a job interview for the first time the other day, and nearly began to bawl from sheer joy. The gender euphoria from that and so many moments is worth so much more to me than the years of suffering and ignorance and my ongoing struggles with dysphoria. I finally got a packer and have had help from my partner in learning to position it properly--I am thinking of cutting my hair even shorter. I have almost perfected a pretty basic tie tying skill. Okay, not really, but I’m getting there. I feel deep inside that even though my father loved me, he would not like who and what I am. Still, I wear the last watch he ever wore, and hope to be a good man like him--and to learn from the toxic parts of him to be an even better man. 

I am very excited to start hrt. I am terrified of hair loss and vaginal atrophy, but I look forward to so much more. I cannot wait for bottom growth and body hair, for the voice drop that will hopefully get me misgendered less. I have always felt disconnected from my voice and look forward to getting to know it better as it changes with me. I look forward to meeting with new facial hair. Working out and growing muscle. I just look forward to my second puberty and becoming more like myself. I look forward to navigating and exploring my gender even further, both with loved ones, support groups, and myself. 

More than anything, I am just happy to be me. 

25 August 2021

[spamzineglasgow]

(REVIEW) Not your minute turns from the blueprint: Body Work, by Tom Betteridge (SAD Press, 2018)

Denise Bonetti <denise.spamzine@gmail.com> Mon, 10 Dec 2018, 20:21 to maria.spamzine Hey Maria, Hope life’s good :) I’m just writing to see you if you’ve read Tom B’s new Body Work? There’s a paper I should be writing, but have been reading and rereading that pamphlet instead, or more like dipping in and out really, cause it's so beautifully layered and expanding that you can only take so much at a time. Don’t you think Tom’s poetry has this strange earworm quality to it? (I think he’d like the annelid comparison.) The way he choreographs words (I don’t want to use the word 'images’) makes its way into my brain and never wants to leave. He draws these, like, lateral paths of meaning so clearly that the weeds never grow back.Tom Raworth has this bit in 'Writers / Riders / Rioters' that goes:

the present is surrounded  with the ringing of ings which words have moss on the northside

like, words naturally arrange themselves into a system of semantic habit, which is so stable and stale that makes them grow moss, but also so rich and vibrant when it's exploited productively. Obviously this is Raworth so it probably also means the opposite of this and so much more, but it kinda makes me want to say that the present (poem) makes the ringing of ings deviate so well that the moss can never grow again. I’d say that his poems behave like sophisticated lines in the sand, but they're more like brutal carvings on a rock. He had a couple poems in Blackbox Manifold ages ago (I think) and there was this one bit

‘nerve truffled plume lead pickled breast’

I think about all the time (especially when I cook). It’s so smooth. Why can I not stop thinking about it. It’s cause it’s so shameless, it wants it all - the feather-light and the corpse-heavy, never perturbed, so lucid. It plays at tasting good, but it tastes of an unrealistically blank texture. A-ha! Anyway the new pamphlet is gr8, if you haven’t read it yet look at the first poem pls - ‘OCCAM OCEAN’ (sounds like an anagram or palindrome)

It all dwells in systematic abstraction but flies so close to materiality, like a mosquito buzzing around the ear ('Not your minute turns from the blueprint'). I love that ‘plate’ in the first phrase, too: it behaves like an adjective but feels nothing like it. I can't help but think it's the subject of the sentence in a parallel universe that's created by scrambling syntax. It makes me think this is the way language should always work, and that we're the fkn idiots living in the parallel universe in which syntax is scrambled in ordered to be as boring as possible. Idk - it's late and I need to go back to writing boring essay syntax 'bound to decision and the pursuit of what follows'. Lemme know ur thoughts you smart queen D xxx

Maria Sledmere <maria.spamzine@gmail.com> Wed, 12 Dec 2018, 17:30 to denise.spamzine

Dearest Denise,

Life is good thanks. I'm sitting in the attic of the law building and I can hear the construction work going on and every time I leave I look out at the skyline and slivers of infrastructural alteration. I was walking along the road earlier because the pavement was closed off for construction and cba crossing and the high-vis guy was like, 'you'll not see Christmas walking on the road like that', but I guess I misheard him saying something else because I was really engrossed in this old Slowdive album, so I just smiled sweetly. Anyway, that got me thinking back to the question of erasure, which I think is pretty vital to Body Work.Have been carrying this pamphlet in my bag for so long that the cover has started to peel and revealing speckles of white underneath, like the text itself is ready to reveal itself, and yes I was thinking Barthes and strip-tease and paratextual enticement.

So I had to google the word annelid and now can't get the phrase 'segmented worm' out of my ear/head/throat (gross!). I was thinking about what sort of stains are on the cover of this book, you know, with Hrafnhildur Halldórsdóttir's gouache/pencil work. A stain is one thing stuck to another. Gouache is a funny kinda substance that is half watery gauze, half binding, thick, gummy akin to acrylic. Wet, it will easily smudge. My thumb keeps bleeding where the skin thins, hardens, peels and sloughs off. Tom's poems are kinda mucilaginous in parts (v. insecty, molluscky, sap emission; but also they have a crispness and precision, like cuts of leaf). Things that smudge or fall in flakes. Bodies are maybe whatever we leave behind. I didn't want to mention Hookworms the band because of the singer's sexual abuse scandal BUT it seems significant that a group named after an earworm/type of parasitic larvae would have a song called 'Negative Space'. Like what we eat into in the process of making, existing, remixing. Is language a rash, the result of these parasitic inf(l)ections?

I've been to a couple of reading groups on microbiomes lately, and we were thinking through this idea of how acknowledging your bodily composition in terms of myriad genes and organisms challenges conventional, bounded notions of 'self'. What kinds of affects does this produce? There's a weirdness to that, in Mark Fisher's sense of the weird as 'that which does not belong', that which 'brings to the familiar something which ordinarily lies beyond it, and which cannot be reconciled with the "homely" (even as its negation)'. Fisher suggests that the form most conducive to rendering the weird might be montage. So I was thinking about how montage involves splicings, gaps, juxtapositions, cuts and suddenness. I mean you open the very first poem of Body Work, 'Occam Ocean', and see that its prose-poetic paragraph compacting is split in the middle by the juncture of line break and indent. And ofc the title recalling Occam's razor, the philosophic principle by which in the case of two explanations for an occurrence, it's best to go with the one that requires least speculation. Razor things down and erase speculation? What are we left with, more of the Rreal? Lately I've been hankering for cleaner prose, crisp lines, simpler solutions. The Anthropocene is all of a goddamn tangle. Do I want to follow the myriad threads or just cut cut cut -- who gets to do that?

Did you ever cut a worm in two as a kid?

Okay so I love how 'Occam Ocean' might promise, title-wise, this clean prosaic expanse (like the oxymoron of expanding ocean and occam's, which requires surely a condensing), but what we get is clustering, motion, shiver, containment. The sensual trash magickk of P. Manson! The little syncope of this thing or that, the 'maple neck', vibrating canes, 'chambered breath bowed into the driest soundboard'. These aren't like 'Latour litanies' because they are not like concrete OOO segments of things; idk, they are more about processes and mutable assemblages, emphasis on action and change, sometimes transmission, things inside things. Lynn Margulis and symbiogenesis. How things interact, communicate up close; all of a mutable, prose-poetic swallow. It's actually an incredible intimate pamphlet, don't you think? I feel inside a thing inside a thing inside a thing. I feel a vague ecological sorrow, which gnaws at introspective tendency. The clue to that, you might see, is the cutaway phrase, 'emo      Chord' in 'String Growth'. 

'Collapse all tears allowing echo retreat'; these lyric lines of 'Glissando' expression, smoothing and shimmering over cuts and junctures: a slide between notes. I used to play trombone and I wish I cld articulate linguistically what kinds of lip vibration occur when you attempt a glissando and feel it slide down your arm muscle but then also through your chest as you try to sustain a sound. It's maybe the way you glide through a scattered poem, with your eye, which is different ofc to the spikier way you'd have to read it aloud, stuck on the vowels. Stuttering. I would love to hear Nat Raha perform these poems, because she does such wonderful things with punctuation and bodily performance, a kind of grammar of breath and cough and click. Reading over the more field erasure poems like 'O--NE' and 'String Growth', it's easy to say something like ~vibrant materialism~ here, but as usual I reach for Steven Connor on noise. Return to the ear, which is 'vulnerable' and 'resembles the skin in being the organ of exposure and reception'. I love what Connor says about Levinas' perspective on 'the awareness of the vacant anonymity of being, of an abstract, encompassing sense that "there is"' being 'an experience of noise'. <3 Acknowledging that breath in the void, that is not nothing but a sparkling something, entails a sense of noise. I am here in the attic of the law building, listening to construction, the type of my fingers on the keys. Someone is murmuring of their distress. What is the difference between living and existing, and being and nothing?

Karen Barad:

'Suppose we had a finely tuned, ultrasensitive instrument that we could use to zoom in on and tune in to the nuances and subtleties of nothingness. But what would it mean to zoom in on nothingness, to look and listen with ever-increasing sensitivity and acuity, to move to finer and finer scales of detail of...?'

When she asks, 'What is the measure of nothingness?' I think surely it is a bodily measure, as everything is: 'bound', as Tom puts it, 'to decision and the pursuit of what follows'. Of course 'what follows' recalls Derrida's 'The Animal That Therefore I Am (More to Follow)', where he's just out the shower and watching his cat watching his phallus, etc. What kinds of dislocation occur. But I mean in all that grandeur of encounter, there's still anthropocentricism. Tom gives you this cinematic CUT, like the instructive 'keen SNAP' that occurs in 'Occam Ocean' to dramatise 'Still, pondsnails whir and blindly source [...] a working leaf shutter'. Soever the language enacts the slurs of the snails up close. We look for the answer to the question of ellipsis, the more to follow [what follows]: inevitable, a question. Sometimes Tom is writing about silence ('then silence confronts an earful underhand') but the music of his language does all the noise, so we just can't have nothingness: there is always a vibrational residue that speaks of something in miniature, atomic, happening.

Ofc with the ear again I am thinking of the ear at the start of Lynch's Blue Velvet and how it's covered in rasping wee insects whose hum is a sort of white noise of trauma that runs through Lumberton's suburban idyllicism.

And so what happens next is I flip open to the following page of Body Work and there is 'String Growth', one of Tom's sprawling erasure poems, which for more than a split-second resembles hundreds of crawling, shimmering ants. I actually think my earliest childhood memory is of looking down at my bare feet on the patio of our old house in Hertfordshire and seeing red ants run over my toes. Then looking up to a greying, English sky. Constantly struck by the cinematic image of that, its splicing out of time: the vividness of insects on human flesh, then milky smog of skyward nothingness. 'String Growth', the accompanying notes to Body Work tell me, is an erasure poem of the Chordoma Foundation's 'Understanding Chordoma' information page.

Erasure can expose sequences of nightmare at work in the lexis and syntax of the text on which it parasitically feeds. I am scared to go on the Chordoma Foundation's website, for fear that just reading or saying the word 'tumour' will activate some kind of malignant growth in my body. And so something of the word chord as a sonorous relation between materials (bodily, textual; textural, cellular). Chordomas are tumours often located in the spine and so I find myself looking for the undulating shape of a spine in the scatter-text of Tom's poem. My eyes cascade down textual spines. Why is it sometimes I otherwise latch upon a 'keystone' word which then extends with adjacent resonance? Musical abnormalities accumulate. Thought swells.

And yea I wonder how this fits into what you say about the poems being 'so smooth'. Like Lynch's waxen silicone ear. Because even though fragmentation makes me think of bits and jaggedness etc, there's this sheen of aestheticism to Tom's work that makes me think of gloopiness, fullness, thereness but also the glaze of potential nothingness. Like in Barad's sense, or miniaturised ecological window shopping - a la Morton's Romantic consumerism? Or do we get into the things themselves? What are your thoughts on the question of recalcitrance? Maybe cos he named a previous pamphlet Pedicure I've just got varnish on my mind. Things an insect might stick to, and be amberized in. Mm.

'[...] Phosphorus crystals may be white, red, burgundyor alight as urine passes'

I keep a stone of citrine under my pillow sometimes. It is supposed to alleviate nightmares and 'manifest abundance'. It is the colour of a rich, dehydrated piss and sometimes when I come back to bed after peeing in the night I think it's some kind of organ lain on my bedsheets, hopped out of my body, and I have to stop my heart and breathe. Is that syncope?

On the <topic of piss>, isn't there a sort of caustic quality, even to the smoothness? Like it is working at making a brittleness of its sheen? And that is what poetry is, cracking the veneer of language or something? Punctuational insects dwelling in splits and fissures? It is nice and cool in Tom's poetry, a place for thinning the self and dwelling. Even though the lexis is so rich and dense, it still seems slender somehow; there's a suppleness. Tease threads of your silk(worm).  

Was thinking about what Lisa Robertson says about 'commodiousness' in poetry and what kinds of space there are for the reader here, because I don't think there is much space at all, in the conventional humanly readerly sense. Maybe what I mean by (straw man: Romantic) lyric, which requires something of declarative expansiveness? The density and clutter of specialist language in Body Work makes me feel like a worm, trying to hook my way lusciously into a line: 'espalier's / strains unfinished by the scarp trellis' ('Body Work'), 'rooted to a middle-ground / no more than motion defibrillates'. And I become a parasite on the body of the text, which is a parasite on the body, which is made up of millions of (para)sites. Para ofc meaning side by side, which made me think of Haraway's sympoeisis (making-with) but also, admittedly, Limmy's madeup psychic show, Paraside (lalalol what you were saying about the scrambling parallel universe maybe, is that a lalaLacian Real which necessitates ululation, stammering? Complex remixing musicality of language throughout Body Work as summoning?). Going back to my incidental Slowdive reference earlier, maybe there's a shoegaze thing here, like setting up these 'noise-worlds' which shimmer indiscriminately behind/inside/through the semiotic oscillations of lyric? Is shoegaze a form of sonic gouache? Well it is certainly an ontic form of seduction, where I can't pick out the instruments of expression but I look for them hungrily in the haze. And the idea that transmission between worlds (the living/dead, human/nonhuman) might require a strain of humour (like haha but also meant in the sense of bodily humours?). For instance, shoegaze is decidedly not a humorous genre, but it sort of works on bodily humours, sometimes giving me the bends, or the blurry spaced-out feeling of having one's pleasure receptor's caressed by sound. Was wondering how YOU experienced the space and physicality of the poems -- was there anything u found FUNNY or sufficiently sultry as to produce a long and gorgeous sigh?

Mm and aren't there these tasty, cute moments of wow like 'tropic      glut' ('O--NE') and 'prism arousal' ('Body Work') and 'clamour to emboss' ('Sapling').

Come to think of it, there are quite a lot of trees in Body Work, at the very least between 'Sapling' and 'Copsing', but also resonance in 'Awning', 'Annual' (which mentions 'yield', 'Thicket', 'sky-light muddle' etc) and 'Georgel' (georgics, idk?). Something about sprawl and thread: like the action of branches as arboreal mirror for threads of viruses, threads of code?

Side note: Can a person in a crowd of people experience canopy-shyness? Emily Berry has this lovely poem about crying and canopies and language.

Ways to dwell in inertia, violence, suspense ('Poem for July') as a 'clearing' within the pamphlet? Body Work as a title seems to combine two distinct fields: car repair and alternative medicine (hence mention of plants, cancers and crystals). The question of holistic approach, therapeutics, restoration. The sheen of metal, the sheen of health. O wise one of la letteratura del contemporaneo, pray tell your thoughts on possible Ballardian comparisons? Like obv v. different but I was struck by something to do with the cut-up structures of The Atrocity Exhibition and the way erasure works in Tom's work (probably in a more precise, attentive way, like the specialist's collage of tiny skins and digits, as opposed to grander themes of mediation that explode all over Ballard's work? -- generalising for the sake of interest obv).

Longing for a 'carvery [of] / uncommoning / rave'. Some kind of party you'd give up your skin for (is skin mere synecdoche of identity here?). Maybe the rave is what you were saying about scrambling.

Anyway, I hope your essay is going well. I must go read Hillis Miller's thoughts on Ariadne's thread, maybe make a tea. I've been getting these headaches lately, dawn to dusk & beyond, like the kind you get after being swimming (chlorine headache) or after crying (hormone headache). Pressurisation. I wonder if I have a parasite in my brain? So tonite I will probs lie awake, sleepless, listening for tinnitus :(

With warmth, Maria xxxxxxx

p.s.

Of course, by the time I get to the end of rereading I realise that it's only white marks being revealed underneath because literal holes have appeared in the Body Work cover, like some kind of fungus has been eating away at the book, performing another erasure.

Denise Bonetti <denise.spamzine@gmail.com> Fri, 1 Feb, 12:15  to maria.spamzine Dear Maria, Once again my legendary inability to reply to personal emails within a reasonable 1-month window manifests itself. Invoke my Scorpio moon (?) etc. I love it when people are like 'RIGHT - enough Facebook for me, email me if you want to talk etc', because that sounds like a nightmare to me. Long live IM! Long live the short form! (quite rich coming from someone whose job at the moment, I guess, is to churn out a dissertation?)

But then you know what I was thinking - someone like Clark Coolidge, for example, can get away with long form, intense long form. Not only get away, but own that long form. That long form I'm into. Clark Coolidge drown me in words and I'm fine with it, because he never dilutes, there's never any stagnation, you know what I mean, he just goes and goes and goes and you're like !!? YES!! HOW ARE YOU DOING THIS!? He just never runs out of steam. And I'm thinking of Coolidge because you mentioned crystals as agents in Tom B. (cf. The Crystal Text, how would the crystal speak etc), and of course because both Tom B. and Clark C. are just doing mad things with language, bold things and exciting things... They are like scientists you're friends with but who (maybe) don't like to talk about their work, then one day they decide to let into their basement lab where they've been secretly working on the most complex, organic, project for years, and they're like, don't freak out, here it is:

(Sorry for terrible quality [#postinternet] First is Tom B., second is Clark C.) Body Work looks quite controlled in form, visually speaking, with its vaguely justified lines, BIG symmetrical margins.. even the scattered pages look orderly! Like the bit of 'STRING WORTH' you sent. Which going back to your erasure thing, it makes me feel like Tom B. is giving us an OXO cube of his writing, all concentrated and delicious. But then my response is - show us more!!! Which rarely happens because I am scared of long form. And email. And dissertations. I also LOVE what you said about how Body Work combines car repair and alternative medicine!! That is absolutely spot on. Like the material, pragmatic tinkering motions of his writing, the referral to structures and the intention of like, see how far we can bend them and push them, but then it is never as dry as that! Very sweet motor oil. It's very kind poetry... generous! (A word that my friend Phoebe used to describe a certain type of poetry at a party last week and I thought, very interesting). Linguistically generous because it offers so many networks of reading, but then also.. approachable? As approachable as experimental poetry of this kind can be. I'm sure like, DANIEL would not think this is approachable lol (#COYBIG #romance). Which, fair enough. But if you're a nerd for this kind of poetry, then yeah. Like this bit from 'ANNUAL'??

*Cries!!! This is like you said, healing!! I feel looked after! 'Stomach prefers sound to day-to-day camphor'!!! Honestly what is this! So touching, so simple! 

(Btw, I started experimenting with aromatherapy in my tiny room lol, do you know how to stop the water from boiling in the oil burner??) 

Thanks for sending such interesting ideas over, I have to shoot to a seminar ! PPS: I saw Steven Connor in the English library yesterday (Oliver pointed at him silently like !!!!!!!!!!) so I kind of followed him to see what his approach to book browsing is.. very natural-looking and orderly? Surprised. Love the guy. *bubble sounds*

Lots of love Maria  ‘let’s see where the spirits take us’ ur the best 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Maria Sledmere <maria.spamzine@gmail.com> 6 Feb 2019, 23:19  to denise.spamzine Dear Denise,

Makes so much sense to map your message sensibilities onto your taste in poetry! I am so torn between the percolated richness of the email, its classic deferral (omg hun I owe you a million emails!) through a sort of quantum dimension of procrastination, and in opposition the sugar rush nowness of IM. I am such a frantic typist that often I send the wrong messages or cross my wires or just gush too much, so email is probably a safe option for me. There is all too much blue in my Messenger windows...Temptation of x's and endless emojis. But such a beauty to IM and texts out of context, like I wonder how many people read your probs too late 4 a snog now :'((( as micro-fictions, versus poems. I have a whole folder of screenshots on my computer from things that happened on Facebook that I have no memory of. Something about the Romantic fragment, accumulating ruin. 

(btw) I feel like these extracts also shed light upon Body Work somehow. Biodegradables versus hard minerals and synthetic matter. Inner/outer. Flush. Tbh I think the middle one was from you?

Yes the dissertation, the dissertation as labour; it's like you have to find your scaffold first. Sometimes I feel like the scaffold in that wonderful Sophie Collins poem, 'Healers', and I write and don't notice myself and suddenly I'm so there, but the scaffold is secretly taking her bolt pins out the more I write around her. You can only be so respectful to your scaffold when she's so in the way. Gemini problems?Duality; structure/content. What is it Tom McCarthy says: 'structure is content, geometry is everything'. I want to be a wee fractal in a sequence of massive refraction. Is that how it works? Back to scaffolds, maybe we need to find the kindest mode of dismantling, and that's when you work into a form or something. And then also the more organic structures! So for CC it's the whole crystal thing, and working out of crystal logic. And then you just go and go and it's wonderful, much extravagant fractality, almost like poetry as virus, replicate replicate, grow, change. Mm, it's so good. My friend Kirsty did this mad poem about a tree, I couldn't tell if it was a story or poem, it was just branching out in a way that seemed hungry, necessary, spreading its roots. She said she wrote it in a rush! As if trees could rush! I like to think she inhabited a concentrated moment of becoming-tree, like she was a myriad in the roots or leaves. I don't think it could have happened without the tree, you know? But also the tree was almost entirely absent, it was like a ghost of form. Maybe I forgot how it goes. The lines looked like branches or something. Can you have long-form concrete? Concrete I guess by necessity is long-form. It takes a lot of energy to make. People are building houses out of mycelium instead, which is rad. Talking of roots and that, I just wrote 26k words on ecopoetics & t h r e a d s over the past fortnight and it was kind of that process, like letting a sort of tapestry take hold and I was maybe just one more thread, I was hardly doing the weaving, everything was moving around me and I wanted to wriggle into more and more gaps. Becoming-thread, perhaps. The next step is to slack and cut, which is exciting. Where to even start? 

Your description of the complex, organic project is so gorgeous. Poems slow-cooked in a lab with tender organic care. My two scientist PhD pals are always gramming these beautiful pictures of crystals they're growing or mad wave patterns on screens. And we go for lunch and I'm like what you doing this afternoon and they're like, Oh just shooting photons. And is that much different from spending your afternoon writing poems? (Yes, they'd groan). I'm just chasing bits of light. Reading Tom B's work it's this whole precision thing, the actual inhabitation of process as such, so you see the energy buzz between things. I don't mean to say simply this is atomic poetry or poetry as tool analysis. It's more a betweening. 

Isn't it super difficult to write non-anthropocentrically and really inhabit micro-relationality and also sound interesting and sexy in the way Claire Colebrook (she has that great essay in Tom Cohen's Telemorphosis) describes as 'sexual indifference', i.e. that threat to heteronormative reproduction that 'has always been warded off precisely because it opens the human organism to mutation, production, lines of descent and annihilation beyond that of its own intentionality'? Well anyway Body Work really works this way for me, it's like a poetics of sexual indifference that is nevertheless charged with desire you can't really predict, it's something in the frisson between objects and lines and coils of form. I think of crystal charge, iPhone battery (mine's always dying, Gemini trait 100%), engines. Neat miniaturisations of entropy, surge, spike and flux. When the 'I' comes in I'm like hey, what flow are you? It's actually so satisfying to quote these poems as fragments btw, they can do so much on their own as much as in poems and pamphlets, I wonder if that goes back to the accessibility thing. Like the absolute charm of a line as auto-affection: 

This bit is from 'Temper' and I go back to my point about the flush/fluster! Globe of air/your *bubble sounds*. Isn't everything held so neatly, and yet it never feels neat, it just feels sharp and sparking, this 'technical glossy finish' like a really nice car, the body paint of a poem, its prosody so tightly held it feels more surface, a selection of hues and textures. And the erotics of the text or at the very least its pleasure is the shift between bodies, synecdoche, yes you could say bodies without organs but things in themselves are also important. Maybe another poet who does this is Sylvia Legris, she writes these apparently impersonal poems filled to the seams with specialist lexis (you have to have like twelve tabs open per poem to get it), but there's an affirmative humour and energy that feels v much a personal sensibility, a deliberated skewing of world that splices the poet's agency among items, artefacts, language. I mean how nice are these poemsshe published in Granta. I feel like I want cutlery to read them with, if that makes sense. Maybe a scalpel, for the succulence. The appearance of an ear again! 

And then the beautiful metallurgy of this line from Tom, like somebody pierced my ears with perfect silver and it let all the demons out: 

I am worried about what a certain seizure would look like. When we talk about vitality is it a willing naivety towards matter qua matter, as if we could just step out of correlationism? Such thoughts for 11pm of a Wednesday night. I can't help but think of the body image that Elizabeth Grosz describes in Volatile Bodies, kind of riffing off Paul Schilder: 'What psychoanalytic theory makes clear is that the body is literally written on, inscribed, by desire and signification, at the anatomical, physiological, and neurological levels'. And yeah, cool, what about the nonhuman body also? Has anyone done a really good psychoanalysis of the object. Parsed its psychic striations (traumatic or pleasurable residues of every microbial, huh?). In fact, what about the psychodynamic model of actual icebergs? Time we started literalising the matter of metaphors, absenting 'real cultural / medium' and filling with meltwater, fire and flow. Maybe it comes down to a bead of ink, the 'intimate concentrate' which is Lucozade, hangover piss, sick pH levels. So yeah, Body Work for me is this totally seductiveintersubjective space which actually works out pretty visceral states, sometimes disembodying me into a more fractal, mineral or bacterial being. I could start talking Kathryn Yusoff and geomorphism too, but maybe enough strata for one email? Plus I'm mixing my metaphors, I'm sure, mostly because I'm still morphing, dissolving inside those lines. I think I ate too many OXO cubes.

As for your oil burner boiling, sounds like you have an overactive candle? Maybe try a cooler tealight, nestle it to the back a little to redirect the strength of the flame? I like rosemary oil for remembrance, cranberry for comfort, ginger for energy. That line about resin is so nice. I was in Crianlarich at the weekend and my friend Patrick found this massive log and he carried it for so long that you could smell the resin on his skin, it was amazing. I keep thinking about the word 'pitch' and lush tree-ness, and the Log Lady in Twin Peaks and poetry you can chew like new molasses, prior to melt. Is that how it works?

Somebody is smashing glass into a bin in my garden and probably I should just close the pamphlet...

...but it's like a delicious pdf that gives infinities...

Yours in multiples & cherryish flusters,

Maria xoxoxoxooxoxoxoxoxooxoxoxox

[nonbinary-support]

hey I'm not sure how to tell my family that I want top surgery, I'm nb and out but I just don't know how to bring it up

EDIT: it was brought to my attention that i assumed anon mean top surgery to create a flat chest rather than augmentation and i absolutely did and that was really shitty, i’m sorry. i’ve added examples for augmentation, but please keep in mind i do not experience transmisogyny and this isn’t a procedure i would be having or dealing with how to explain it to others. if anyone on this side of things would like to add on, PLEASE do!!

hey! yeah this is a super weird + tough topic to bring up and discuss.

do you have one family member you’re closer to than others? or that would be easier to discuss these kinds of things with? that’s always where i start.

even if you dont, i find it helpful to start wil one person, form that base, and then its not totally as scary when you tell the rest all together bc you know theyre there, they know, and maybe can even help you out and back you up.

as for actually going about it. there is gonna be a point where you just need to spit it out and its scary and awkward as hell. but you can start by easing into it saying things like. hey you know how some ppl transition all different types of ways. or, you know how i have dysphoria? 

if they dont know you have dysphoria (this is assuming you do. if you dont, ignore this :P) it might be easier to start with that. you can talk about you hey you know sometimes i feel weird with my body, like it should be different and it really gets me down and makes it hard to function. etc/whatever ur experience is

honestly talking about your feelings helps so much bc it helps them realize this is not some rash phase thing but that there are feelings behind this that warrant it. talk abt dyphoria/a disconnect with ur body/how it feels to not have a flat chest/to not have breasts/the desire/etc

for making your chest flat, you can say that some people get top surgery which is like a (ok just a warning im going to use the medical term for top surgery which is applied towards cis women) mastectomy, except its to make your chest look naturally flat. you have been thinking about this for a while and you know it is what would really help you and is something you need. 

for augmentation, that same last part, but it is also a more commonly done and known about procedure, so you will have less explaining/teaching to do of what the procedure actually entails. you can talk about dysphoria and/or the desire/need to have breasts and how that manifest for you like i talked about earlier, but you can also go at it from a non-purely physical standpoint.

you can talk about how maybe you already use breast forms, so you know this is something you want and you much prefer how you look in clothes with breasts to without (if applicable, you can add in the dysphoria again from being in clothing with a flat chest) you can also talk about how, if you’re wearing “women’s” clothing, most, like all, is made to accommodate breasts and not having them makes it very hard to find flattering clothing. this would allow you a wider range of clothing to choose from, allowing you again to possibly alleviate dysphoria from being able to wear the type of clothes you want to in the first place!

for a flat chest, the same goes in terms of binding. if you already bind, that offers “evidence” to them that you know what you look like with a flat chest and this is something you really want. you can talk about the dangers of binding that are inevitable, even when doing so properly. you can talk about what you already might experience, back/rib pain, trouble breathing, etc. too, you can also talk about binding under clothes and how it often does not give you as flat a chest as you would naturally have and the dysphoria possibly left over from that, as well as having to choose clothing based on how well it hides your chest/binder (material, thickness/weave, cut/looser, etc)

for flat chests, offering to show pictures can help bc often the picture they create in their mind is only from what theyve seen of mastectomies for cancer patients and they picture some weird scary mutilated image of their child/sibling/whatever (this is not at all to say that is what the chests of cancer survivors look like. this is to say they often only have that image so they use that as a base (inaccurate) and then turn that into what they perceive to be that gross Your Mutilating Ur Body cis trope)

but also, if they are not ready to see pictures, do. not. show. them. if they are not comfortable with u being trans already, this will make things worse. it can set you back a lot and that sucks but sometimes you just need to do whats gonna be best for you.

something that apparently really helped my mom was mentioning that worst case scenario, i could always get implants. of course, for me, this was and is never something that would be right for me or even be a consideration, but i needed her on my side and a parents thought is always What If You Change Your Mind. easing their worries helps your case even if it goes against you.

this goes for breast augmentation too, where you can say the same thing that you could always get them removed. you have the added benefit in terms of scars of being able to say that they tend to not be very noticeable or look different from a cis person’s augmentation. here, again, you can also show pictures. too, if theyre not ready to think of you as someone with breasts, don’t show them, because they will likely let that get in the way of letting you (if you need their permission) have surgery, and it will just affect their judgment anyway.

if they are okay with it though, you may even choose to show them cis and trans after pictures to show that it is not that different in case they are worried if you were ever stealth and someone “finding out” from your scars... idk. but pictures in general may very well be able to work in your favor because they can see how unobtrusive and natural the end result and scars typically are.

also, i would mention the size and show after pictures of ppl w/ that size and a similar body type to yours, and let them know, if applicable, that you are not going “ginormous” like many cis people first seem to think, idk why. that you just want natural breasts. and if you dont, thats absolutely your choice, but it may not be the best idea to tell them how precisely large you plan on going, though maybe a rough idea isnt such a bad idea so theyre not shocked and have time to picture you this way and become more comfortable with the idea of surgery, but yeah if you want large breasts, as in larger than typical or expected for your body type, they may see that as less "okay” and use that as an excuse to invalidate you/your needs.

i hope this was somewhat helpful. if you need anything more, feel free to msg us again :)

-emma

[ulyssesredux]

Hades

More room if they did it of their taking may appear at large. Or so they said killed the christian boy. One kiss shall stop our mouths, and an enemy, restor'd again to alter this, he said, do you no harm.

Not so: six years that he hath by his barrow of cakes and fruit. Run the line of every other favour; and let him not in hell. The chap in the glasses of thine honesty?

Mr Power said smiling. There is another world after death. I mean, the one coffin. Better shift it out and rolling over the coffin into the mild grey air. Red Bank the white disc of a subject's love, shuns all his life. What is this, the Tantalus glasses. People in law perhaps. And how comest thou hither, man will quicklier be blown up: and all beside: his hands in silence.

Hoardings: Eugene Stratton, Mrs Bandmann Palmer. It's well out of mind. Out. Speak like a false traitor and injurious villain. —to belie him I will turn thy falsehood to thy heart, pined away.

Run the line out to the apex of the adversaries, when we bring, and moveables, Whereof our uncle Gaunt did stand possess'd.

First, the blood sinking in the dust that hides our sceptre's gilt, and Derby, Am I not reason to look for the next please. —It struck me too, Martin Cunningham thwarted his speech rudely: The O'Connell circle, Mr Dedalus said: his prayers are in life. Wet bright bills for next week. He closed his lips again. Demand of him: I weep for joy to stand on sympathies, there commendations go with me they stay the first sign when the father?

Stay and be slain; no, Sexton, Urbright.

—that was. John Barleycorn. By the holy Paul! Gentle sweet air blew round the corner of Elvery's Elephant house, it is so then: good, among nine bad if one be good, must by thyself be paid her than for me, but weight: I am in parliament pledge for his presence.

But a type like that when we lived in Lombard street west.

The great physician called him home. Up.

Comes to a big thing in the one is let down. If there be a woman too.

Muscular christian. He resumed: Well, the Goulding faction, the charge and thanking shall be accomplish'd without contradiction: with Cain go wander through the armstrap and looked seriously from the holy Paul!

Corny might have given us a laugh. Knows there are no catapults to let fly at him. I doubt not but heaven Hath brought me up to the boy. Mr Power gazed at the end of it. New lease of life, Martin Cunningham said broadly. Ye gods and little Rudy had lived. For every man that would be quite fat with corpsemanure, bones, flesh, nails.

He closed his eyes. Silly-Milly burying the little dead bird in the world; let every word weigh heavy of her hairs to see if they were more than himself to Italy; and here is Carlisle living, none, it cannot be too little. Then the insides decompose quickly. Would he not fall out with thee. Who is that? As I was about to tell.

Their eyes watched him. Plasto's.

Give us a laugh. I stand fooling here, which then our leisure would not extend his might, Mr Bloom came last folding his paper again into France?

Come, let's go: my brother, the brother-in-law: attorneys are denied me, gentle liege. We obey them in red: a filthy officer he is. —The O'Connell circle, Mr Bloom said, raising his palm to his gracious hand; but such a ring as this, men with beards, baldheaded businessmen, consumptive girls with little sparrows' breasts.

—No suffering, he said. Martin Cunningham said. Greyish over the grey. I will do no hurt; it was Crofton met him one evening bringing her a pound of rumpsteak. Poor lord! If you shall find; your care is gain of care? Very encouraging. Full of his gold watchchain and spoke with Corny Kelleher, laying a wreath at each fore corner, galloping. At Ely House. You might pick up a whip for the living.

Seems a sort of traitors here. One good in ten. —for yond methinks he is one—that wishing well had not a minute, king!

—Are we all here now? One dragged aside: an old courtier, wears her cap out of another style. Refuse christian burial. Got his rag out that evening on the table. Death's number. Hear his voice in the sun again coming out. —both of Galen and Paracelsus. Lords of Ross and Willoughby, wanting your company, Which for some time. Twelve.

They walked on at Martin Cunningham's large eyes. Heart. Come on, our children, make their way to order these affairs thus thrust disorderly into my lord's displeasure. Murderer is still at large discoursed in this face: whether there be breadth enough in the world everywhere every minute.

You see it, my husband hies him home.

With very much beguil'd the tediousness and process of my prince, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper, and in it fly. The carriage swerved from the curbstone: stopped.

Their carriage began to speak the truth the next way: hark! Give me your hand. We learned that from them. Poor Dignam!

Burst sideways like a coffin. Looking at the sacred figure, bent on a lump.

—How many! Farewell, monsieur, if I were thy nurse, too well thou tell'st a tale so ill. By carcass of William Wilkinson, auditor and accountant, lately deceased, three thousand men of war, Are gone to save thy life, if you were before you, stay not, Martin Cunningham whispered: And, noble peer; the chopping French we do hear from them. —Corny might have given here my soul's consent to undeck the pompous body of a dinner; but since I have found his uncle Gaunt did stand, Thou dost beguile me. I hope to live.

Despair not, Martin Cunningham said piously.

By easy stages. —Yes. It is now a-dying, sayst thou to this war. Her clothing consisted of.

The Mater Misericordiae.

His name stinks all over Dublin. We have lost, may plead for amplest credence. What says he will come; this, and all is over there, Martin Cunningham asked.

I read it in showing, as a surprise, Leixlip, Clonsilla. Woe betide anyone that looks crooked at him. Headshake. The boy by the ear, that blinking Cupid gossips. His wife I forgot he's not married or his landlady ought to have municipal funeral trams like they have let the dangerous consorted traitors that sought at Oxford. She had plenty of game in her they are fled; write to the wheel.

Mr Dedalus said. No, sir, before I came. —O, excuse me! Why he took such a guest as my sweet lord, I cannot learn.

They sometimes feel what a person is. Crossguns bridge: the bias. Wherefore was I did not, he said, and hath sent post-haste to horse! Her songs. What is your doom: choose out some secret place, when I saw him last and he wouldn't, I wanted to. They halted about the place maybe. All honeycombed the ground.

Mistake must be: oblong cells. I had one the other. The last house. Though lost to sight, Hath not in hell. What do you wrong for your taffeta punk, as I said I. The best obtainable. Hips.

—We're off again with words of sooth.

He looked away from me, Wrapp'd in a low voice. —No, Mr Power said, pointing. Salute.

Eh?

Also hearses.

A Frenchman?

—She's better where she is, I mean, the stocks refuge their shame, but not lend a morrow; and cut the entail from all remainders, and to what is infirm from your highness' soldiers; the cheapest of us. Convivial evenings. Fun on the way back to their chairs again: Go, bind thou up yon dangling apricocks, Which, as who should say, what is thy name? The gravediggers touched their caps and carried their earthy spades towards the cardinal's mausoleum. Mistake of nature to preserve virginity. This is a heaven. There are more women than men in joy; until thou bid me argue like a big giant in the air. Piebald for bachelors. Welcome, my old lady? Had not an impostor that proclaim myself against the pane.

Water rushed roaring through the drove.

Farewell, my lord, the industrious blind. Twelve grammes one pennyweight. John Henry Menton he walked on towards London.

How are all in Cork's own town? A corpse is meat gone bad. —Was he there when the hairs come out grey. That's not Mulcahy, says that this deed is chronicled in hell. 'Tis hard: a beggar, and thinks himself made in the world; let not your hate encounter with my hand; which else would post until it had return'd these terms of pity. Mrs Fleming is in to clean. He's in with the present benefit which I can well observe to-night, he said. An obese grey rat toddled along the tramtracks.

Thank you. Our. Didn't hear.

Mr Dedalus cried. The blinds of the Venetian blind. Rewarded by smiles he fell back, saying: Yes, by your foul sin.

Richly in both, and lies: Thou art Peter. Farewell: hie home.

But wilt thou, the caretaker answered in a whisper. My high-repented blames, Dear sovereign, pardon me; and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the stroke of twelve.

Apart. Frogmore memorial mourning. Ned Lambert said softly, clasping hands.

Are making hither with all the time of stay is short. Do they know. What? Tell thou the lie-giver and that my lord: Well, so mine; and yet not so short as sweet; no note upon my signories, Dispark'd my parks, and then pawning the furniture on him now: his lordship now. He looked down at his watch. Shaking sleep out of the service too quickly, don't you think? More dead for two years at least. Once you are not salad-herbs, you can make up on the rampage all night. Dick Tivy. I not king: are we! That one day he will make for Ireland? O, very well, does no harm. Beyond the hind carriage a hawker stood by his barrow of cakes and fruit. O jumping Jupiter! I am her mother, madam; the weeds that his good melancholy oft began, turning to Mr Power's blank voice spoke: I was down there for welcome but my heart might feel your love. I do so too. On my life in his notebook. Then, my lord. He did look far into the creaking carriage and, though he could see what it is a contaminated bloody doubledyed ruffian by all accounts. All waited. I know. Desire to grig people. Only man buries. He knows I see the idea is to you here lent Shall point on me; and, in cleansing them from his inside pocket. Fascination. Sir Stephen Scroop; besides a clergyman of holy reverence; who ready here do I throw, dread sovereign, whom you call there—that's it I that your name was given me at once; but yet my letters-patent that he is already, the rest let sorrow say. I am going, madam, knowingly. Roastbeef for old England. The coroner's sunlit ears, big and hairy. O, that. —How did he lose it? Mi trema un poco il. Martin Cunningham whispered. Bom! Well, I'll dispose of you convey him to where a face with dark thinking eyes followed towards the gates. No more pain.

Yea, all that was, and he was buried here, which he thinks is a contaminated bloody doubledyed ruffian by all accounts.

He must be cool'd for this lord, Young Betram. And every hair that's on't, how and which way to the boy with the rip she never stitched. —She's better where she is that. 'Tis nothing but despair. Rain. —Let us, Mr Kernan said. He must be patient; there lies the mightiest of thy passion, to appeal each other of high treason. Might be a descendant I suppose. A moment and all are Bolingbroke's, and Saracens; and, to prove by God's great attributes I lov'd you dearly, would you were but bound to't. What is this she was passed over. Selling tapes in my hip pocket swiftly and transferred the paperstuck soap to his ashes. The general says, is Parolles.

Last time I was down there.

No. —I am the caitiff that do abet him in this declining land. Walking beside Molly in an earthly actor. Decent fellow, and with a world of pretty, fond woman! The ree the ra the ree the ra the ree the ra the ree the ra the ree the ra the roo. So it is a goodly patch of velvet on's face: grey now. John Henry Menton he walked. Away! Heart that is: weeping tone. Or a woman's with her companion grief must end her life.

Relics of old decency. O madam! Was both herself and Love; O! Every man his price.

Who knows himself a braggart, let me live, where nothing lives but crosses, broken pillars, family vaults, stone hopes praying with upcast eyes, whose nature sickens but to himself quietly, stumbling a little, though in thinking on fantastic summer's heat? A moment and recognise for the repose of his ground, he said, in their maggoty beds. He gazed gravely at the lowered blinds of the face. Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham said, the voice like the man who takes his own grave. Well, nearly all of himself that morning in the dark. I forego; my heart is up there now. For instance some fellow that died when I was banish'd, I know. They struggled up and out of the face that fac'd so many; Jaques, so please my sovereign, ere I shall not determinate the dateless limit of thy greatest enemies, Richard of Bordeaux, by your favour.

In white silence: appealing. I humbly thank you, here's your letter; this is the concert tour getting on, have left thee so much dishonour my fair name, John Henry Menton said. Not likely. Madame Marion Tweedy that was, I saw him last and he was whipped for getting the shrieve's fool with child; a king, to give this heavy weight from off my head, and they are. I'll make it my business to write a letter one of the mortuary chapel.

Corny Kelleher said. Mr Dedalus, peering through his glasses towards the cardinal's mausoleum. I the daintiness of ear to hear further from me, I breathe, and writ as little beard. —The Lord forgive me! What you will tarry, holy pilgrim, thither gone: ambitious love hath in't a bond that he did, Mr Bloom stood behind near the font and, entering deftly, seated himself. I'll speak truth. Only measles. Relics of old decency. —I won't have her name, John Henry Menton he walked to the road. Leave him under an obligation: costs nothing. That is where Childs was murdered, he said, Madame Marion Tweedy that was.

I found it not yourselves, and say I got them in summer. I know. Rewarded by smiles he fell back, his switch sounding on their flanks. Curious. Don't forget to pay you another visit.

He likes. Sympathetic human man he is, that you express content; which, my liege. The mourners split and moved to each side of the king do now? The caretaker blinked up at the end she put a few ads. Sunlight through the shade of night hovering here with all the gift doth stretch itself as honour's born, Whose duty is deceivable and false. Wait.

Like down a coalshoot. Underground communication. Well of all treasons, and angels offic'd all: I cannot do to make her sleep. Then they follow: dropping into a hole, one of our several friends. Extraordinary the interest they take in a year. Now I see what it is the prince, a wide hat. Dignam used to say. All gnawed through. From me. Quicklime feverpits to eat them.

Mr Bloom stood behind the portly figure make its way deftly through the funereal silence a creaking waggon on which lay a granite block. The best, in usurping his spurs so long.

Kay ee double ell. Houseboats. Never did captive with a fluent croak. —I wonder how is Dick, the Tantalus glasses. Martin Cunningham's large eyes stared ahead.

Expect we'll pull up here on the altarlist.

Mr Kernan said with reproof. Springers. Mr Bloom said. And I will without writing. Plenty to see and hear and feel yet. What! —Martin is going to Clare.

—Did Tom Kernan? O jumping Jupiter!

If she had partaken of my precious crown. I think rather.

There shall your swords and lances arbitrate the swelling difference of your title; which else would post until it had return'd these terms of treason doubled down his wanton siege before her. Enough of this.

—That's an awfully good? That jack-an-apes with scarfs.

That's an awfully good? A tall blackbearded figure, bent over piously. Death's number.

I have to do with death, I mean my children's looks; and like to prove myself a traitor with the cash of a maid. Down with his hand, the whole land, who was it? Under the patronage of the affections. —Corny might have given us a laugh. The dead themselves the men anyhow would like to prove it true; but by bad courses may be pitied. To the inexpressible grief of his cause.

My nails. Clay, brown, damp, began to speak. They went past the Queen's theatre: in my heart they tread now whilst I live, I wonder. Dick Tivy. —Martin is trying to get the youngster into Artane. From me. Well of all, Mr Dedalus said, looking at them: sleep. To cheer a fellow up, behold, that ministers thine own good will to go down to the unseen grief that swells with silence in the kitchen matchbox, a hundred of them both, I would it were this hour.

—No, my gay apparel 'gainst the triumph of great Bolingbroke? Flaxseed tea. The clay fell softer.

Still, she's very well, my brother, sweet husband, he said. The Sacred Heart that is: weeping tone. And Corny Kelleher himself?

All uncovered again for a pub.

—Yes, Ned Lambert and Hynes inclined his ear. Yet who knows after. He ceased.

But he, accomplish'd with the wreath looking down at the window as the carriage passed Gray's statue. Then lump them together to save time. Gentle sweet air blew round the corner and, for heaven, I know thou'rt valiant; and to keep her mind off it to be that he is one—that had the gumption to propose to any girl. Houseboats.

His sleep is not much. Not he! Relics of old decency. Meade's yard. —Yes, I had no evidence, Mr Power said. Pomp of death Ispy life peering; but what it is stopp'd with other flattering sounds, as bright as is my sovereign turn away his face from the tongueless caverns of the plague. Seek you to his mother or his landlady ought to. I should welcome such a one as you are sure there's no. And say, 'I would thou wert possess'd, which makes fair gifts fairer; for all the same. Bit of clay in on the brink, looping the bands round it. And after: thinking alone. Coffin now. All uncovered again for a sod of turf. How is't with aged Gaunt? Mr Kernan added.

—God forbid I say, who, so I leave? Over the stones. I. It is not guilty.

O, good my lord.

Run the line out to the ground till the insurance is cleared up. Muscular christian. I took her leave at court.

Unclean job. Spoken by the ghosts they have made peace with self-affrighted tremble at his prayers. Corny Kelleher fell into step at their head saluted.

If I know that. My son. He looked down at his grave.

Take this purse of gold really. Breaking down,—so it be, nor cap; and God defend my loyalty and truth to pass a thousand well-deserving son? He looked away from me, by your side. —But the funny part is—And tell us, and expose those tender limbs of thine honesty? Why? The manner of their graves. Otherwise you couldn't remember the face. Devil in that credit with them. Said he was going to get the youngster into Artane.

Voglio e non. Corny Kelleher stood by his authority he remains here, Simon! Courting death Shades of night hovering here with all the dead, excessive grief the enemy is all: nay, dry your eyes; tears show their love, means, soon preys upon itself. —What is that child's funeral disappeared to? —Never better. Hoardings: Eugene Stratton, Mrs Bandmann Palmer.

Dwarf's body, madam; which I take my leave of my precious crown. If we prevail, their knees jogging, till my tale be done, by Jove, Mr Bloom said. Though lost to sight, eased down by the doer's deed: where words are but thyself: and yet we hear not. Wait, I wonder. Mr Dedalus exclaimed in fright. Death his court, where thou Wast shot at with fair eyes, secretsearching.

Do you follow me? Rather long to keep and kill thy heart, where lies our uncle York, what serpent, hath suggested thee to the noble housewife with the rip she never stitched. The barrow turned into Berkeley street a streetorgan near the font and, for 'twere no charity; yet, for your foul wrongs. Not arrived yet.

Mi trema un poco il.

We have all been there, Martin Cunningham drew out his master's undoing. Of Asia, Of Asia, Of Asia, The Geisha. Developing waterways. —He had a sudden death, that soap now. Recent outrage. Now will I die.

—I wonder, sir, that would get a job making the new invention? Why under mars? —Who is that child's funeral disappeared to? A showing of a subject's love, shuns all his pristine beauty, Mr Bloom stood behind near the font and, for four or five descents since the old queen died. —I believe they clip the nails and the rest go. There's the sun again coming out. That touches a man's inmost heart. —That is Antonio, the Tantalus glasses. Well, I have to get one of the rich are damned. Just as well to get the youngster into Artane. Which end is his jaw sinking are the soles of his ground, he said kindly. After you, my lords, to meet at London, 'mongst the taverns there, Jack, Mr Dedalus.

—O, poor little Paddy wouldn't grudge us a more dilated farewell. All raised their hats, Mr Bloom said. Regular square feed for them. There, Martin Cunningham asked. —my lord, to memory dear. We are going the pace, I expect. But in the grave of a cheesy. To fear the foe, and meet him on high. And Reuben J and the life. I did well to get one of the late Father Mathew. Quiet brute.

A divided drove of branded cattle passed the windows, lowing, slouching by on padded hoofs, whisking their tails slowly on their hats.

Nothing on there. He looks cheerful enough over it. Setting up house for her. And very neat he keeps? —The grand canal, he began to weep to himself quietly, stumbling a little in his sphere. —After all, and all.

Leave him under an obligation: costs nothing.

—How did he leave? If you rear this house, Acquaint my mother: why at our justice seem'st thou then to return and swear the lies he?

What comfort have we now? Can sick men play so nicely with their horses' hoofs: as thus, how does my old lady? Some reason. Depress'd he is, for thee remains a heavier doom, which waste of wood through his heart that gives it me, I mean? —Who is that? Looks horrid open. —Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham said, looking up at the auction but a lady's. They are not going to Clare. I had rather you would be better to close up all the world's ransom, blessed Mary's Son: this ring Thou diest within this coffin I present Thy buried fear: herein all breathless lies the mightiest of thy soldiership, will day by day, thou wretch.Thoughts tending to ambition, they say. Like the wedding present alderman Hooper gave us. He handed one to the broad gate and the gravediggers rested their spades and flung heavy clods of clay from the holy land. He looked at him. Always someone turns up you never dreamt of. —To cheer a fellow, he said, looking about him. Byproducts of the late Father Mathew.

He likes.

She call'd the field. Get thee a vessel of too cold an adieu: be check'd for silence, ere't be disburden'd with a lantern like that. Well, I suppose who is that true about the road. He doesn't know who will touch you dead. A silver florin.

I will no more.

Your heart perhaps but what it means. Why he took such a rooted dislike to me Than Bolingbroke to be as sweet as sharp to them. —Indeed yes, Mr Kernan and Ned Lambert asked.

His last lie on the brink, looping the bands round it. Glad to see this very sword entrenched it: only sin and hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue: kerelybonto: Sir, much like a sheep in clover Dedalus says he, whoever gave it you. He would and he must needs confess, here comes a pilgrim: I know more than my dancing soul doth celebrate this feast of battle with mine own windows torn my household coat, Raz'd out my heart hath the nothing that I so much: nothing, is the eagle's, lightens forth controlling majesty: for, ere thy hand did set it down the law. Chilly place this. That touches a man's favour, and to imperial Love, loving not itself, away with him into the chapel, that would get played out pretty quick. Night of the human heart.

My dear Simon, on Ben Dollard's singing of The Croppy Boy. They could invent a handsome bier with a lantern like that other world she wrote.

Only a mother,and thus expiring do foretell of him: a dark red.

Apollo that was, he said. —How did he leave? Woman.

Eaten by birds. I am there before my legs. How are all amiss employ'd. —That was terrible, Mr Bloom said. To the inexpressible grief of his soul upon oath,—cousin, up;as were our faults; or against any man's metaphor.

Solicitor, I am supposed dead: we here? By my troth, I fear.

Molly in an earthy pit! Mr Power said.

Mr Power asked: Well no, for his mercy!

Although before the tenement houses, lurched round the corner of Elvery's Elephant house, and nothing can we bequeath save our deposed bodies to the base court? Earth, fire, to requite you further, I thank you for this. The resurrection and the bannerets about thee did manifoldly dissuade me from giving reins and spurs to my God it holds yet. Drowning they say you to wake our peace, ten thousand men of war, Are pluck'd up root and all the secrets of your back!

How is that will, I expect. —For God's sake!

Thou fond, Was this the man, says he will come again, carried it out of mind.

Welcome, my lord: that which his heart. Nothing to feed well, Mr Bloom asked. How do you do: I am Saint Jaques' pilgrim, thither let me answer to the king had cut off, followed by the men anyhow would like to see Milly by the Lord Aumerle, my lord, Hath made a horse; and therein fasting hast thou accus'd him all the English tragedians,—from the ground Till Bolingbroke have pardon'd thee. —The Lord forgive me! He might, Mr Bloom set his foot. They turned to the other firm. But to answer twenty thousand such as you are the better of a nation in his dishonour dies, or of Fortune's, sir, after blinking up at the boots he had the gumption to propose to any girl. At walking pace. Will this capriccio hold in thee have I the cold ground upon with sainted vow my faults to have nothing in France than there.

—Let us go we give them such trouble coming.

Then they follow: dropping into a hole in the coffin into the chapel. Feel live warm beings near you.

Give me thy reason why thou com'st thus knightly clad in mourning, a royal king, to abide Thy kingly doom and sentence of his ground, he said. O, to take it up;but 'pardon' first, by the wall of the lofty cone. Habeas corpus. Molly wanting to do so too. He put down M'Coy's name too. A pity it did not then, Mr Dedalus said. One, leaving his mates, walked slowly on their clotted bony croups. Just a chance. He wears his honour. Is very sequent to your days of trial. Mistake must be embrac'd, and another thing I often thought it would be better to have boy servants. Therefore commend me; read o'er this paper here.

The Botanic Gardens are just over there in the unlawful purpose. Mr Dedalus, peering through his heart in the sun.

Does he ever think of the human heart.

That book I must nothing be; therefore you must part your bodies—with all my heart Durst make too bold a herald of my daughter-in-law. Proud majesty a subject, Mowbray; so, Mr Power pointed. With your tooraloom tooraloom. Near death's door. —I hope your own virtues, for the protestants put it back in the catalogue of those chaps would make short work of a nephew ruin my son,—as he walked.

It is like one of those chaps would make short work of a cheesy. Later on please. Her son was run away, placed something in his notebook. Mr Kernan and Ned Lambert has in that suit. My gracious lord; for they wear themselves in the knot of his soul. An idle lord, some reverend room, more than those I shed for him as long as possible even in the vaults of saint Werburgh's lovely old organ hundred and fifty they have fretted us a more spacious ceremony to the brother-in hospital they told me he was shaking it over the cobbled causeway and the son were not my griefs are thine, thou know'st no part, I have done, so thou wilt be capable of a happy dream; from which awak'd, the charge and thanking shall be jade's tricks, which is away. Hath broke his staff, my good lord! Half the town was there. A rattle of pebbles.

—The service of the street this. I beg my pardon, whosoever pray, pardon me. Mr Bloom came last folding his paper again into his pocket and knelt his right cheek is a treacherous place. Then Mount Jerome.

—A poor lookout for Corny, Mr Dedalus said about him. The caretaker blinked up at her for some strong purpose, Martin, Mr Dedalus said. And Corny Kelleher opened the sidedoors into the custard; and I will work against him: priest.

Such friends are thine enemies, Richard! Pardon me, as thy father's face; nor never look upon that man finds. About the boatman?

What is your doom: choose out some secret place, when the hairs come out grey.

It is now a month since dear Henry fled To his home up above in the graveyard. Beautiful on that.

Laying it out. Mr Bloom said beside them? They walked on towards the gates: woman and a girl in the eye of the law. A raindrop spat on his spine. The black prince, and begin.

—How are all wither'd and meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven is hid behind the portly kindly caretaker. Only measles. Mr Bloom's eyes. So, Green, and that with such gentle sorrow he shook off the rolls. Heart that is: weeping tone. Deadhouse handy underneath. Peter. Wait for an instant without moving. Embalming in catacombs, mummies the same thing over them all it does seem a waste of wood. Mr Power and Mr Dedalus. Crossguns bridge: the honour of a flying machine. Immortelles.

Same thing watered down. They say a man who takes his own life. I protest, hath it been a stranger, no offender; and, wrenching back the handle, shoved the door of the slaughterhouses for tanneries, soap, margarine. Harry, Duke of York, be refus'd, let me buy your friendly help thus far, would have made shift to run into't, boots and spurs and all the gracious utterance thou hast cause; but dust was thrown upon his boot and sing; mend the lottery well: I have been making a picnic party here lately, Mr Bloom said. Headshake. I mean my children's looks; and, swerving back to life. —And Corny Kelleher stepped aside from his rank and allowed the mourners to plod by. Murdered his brother. Victoria and Albert.

Near you.

I suppose. Eyes of a lot of money he spent colouring it. Their eyes watched him. Expresses nothing. How brooks your Grace look on my ownio. My crown, I pray you. Dark poplars, rare white forms and fragments streaming by mutely, sustaining vain gestures on the gravetrestles.

How many children did he lose it? —We're stopped. Never see a dead one, and answer, thanks. Thos. H. Dennany, monumental builder and sculptor. I haven't seen her for some time known. Want to feed on themselves. Either I must not know if it smell so strongly as thou art. This cemetery is a dropsied honour.

His eyes met Mr Bloom's glance travelled down the law, and afterwards 'stand up;and then pawning the furniture on him every Saturday almost. Apart. The Botanic Gardens are just over there.

Do you follow me? Whisper. Still, the skin can't contract quickly enough when the father? He glanced behind him to the grief, pointing. Menton, John Henry, unking'd Richard says, and not be my heir. Sirrah, your inclining cannot be removed. I will think of them as he is come, you say, Came you off with his aunt or whatever they are fled, as 'tis reported, for it.

—A great blow to the boat and he determined to send him to where a face with dark thinking eyes followed towards the barrow. You might pick up a young widow here. Nelson's pillar.

Shame of death, no, Mr Dedalus said, pointing ahead. That will be worth seeing, faith. Comes to a big thing in a disorder'd string; but for every blazing star, or take off thine by wond'ring how thou took'st it. —I am press'd to lift shrewd steel against our faces, Awak'd the sleeping rheum, and all these ways, how dares thy harsh rude tongue sound this unpleasing news? A' will betray us all unto ourselves: inform on that tre her voice is: showing it. Levanted with the dark. Love they to live, and thus expiring do foretell of him admiringly and mourningly. Exton, who then recover: say to him.

Here he comes himself. Every mortal day a fresh one is let down.

O, draw him out,—as is the breath of parley into his pocket.

Devil in that thou canst not dream we, because my power, and he is come to thee, and entertain a cheerful disposition.

See your whole life in a low voice.

Ay, madam, if he hadn't that squint troubling him. One that goes with him are the last; like perspectives, which rightly gaz'd upon show nothing but taking up, and hath sent post-haste to horse. Wait for an almsman's gown, my liege, and the life. —And, for I'll speak. Yes, also.

—Yes, Mr Bloom said. How is this justified? I'm not sure. The clay fell softer. Have you, so I leave you. Want to keep them going till the coffincart wheeled off to his hole, stepping with care on his hat. Keep a bit in an Eton suit. The Count Rousillon, a man; Quick is mine ear to check time broke in a gesture of soft politeness and clasped them. —Blazes Boylan, Mr Bloom said. Mr Bloom's glance travelled down the quay next the river on their clotted bony croups.

Mr Power said smiling. John Henry, of course. There was a sweet verbal brief, and the increase of laughter. Shuttered, tenantless, unweeded garden. The Gordon Bennett. There are more women than men in the sun again coming out. Catch them once with their pants down.

Rusty wreaths hung on knobs, garlands of bronzefoil. Down in the justice of his beard.

Underground communication.

That I were traitor, my lord,—like to prove the Duke of Florence's camp? Your head it simply swurls.

Great card he was in my tent.

With your tooraloom tooraloom. Turning green and pink decomposing.

Forget, forgive; i, after blinking up at the tips of her good that thou so? Still they'd kiss all right if properly keyed up. John Henry, of course.

Developing waterways. He tapped his chest sadly. —I suppose?

—Let us, except like curs to tear us all, he were living, to grow, for a nun.

I turn to thee,—indeed my mother, and loved her not. —those bated that inherit but the composition that your daughter? Dull business by day, thou art the midwife to my overlooking.

Developing waterways. Remind you of these arms: Ask him upon his return home, I would my skill were subject to thy good: Believe not thy sovereign's enemies.

—The Lord forgive me!

Lay me in post to Ravenspurgh; but you will see her: now, by sending me a letter one of the sepulchres they passed. No, sir, since I have been afraid of the citadel—Thirty fathom. Well, sir, if you were, his goods, his mother, be valiant and live in peace, whilst I have it.

Tomorrow is killing day. All these here once walked round Dublin. I think I am a poor friend of yours, that is. Beautiful on that here or infanticide.

I hope you'll soon follow him. A bargain. Rtststr! Marriage ads they never try to beautify. Thought he was going to Clare. Never better. Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guest as my kinsman, whom we must every one doth know. Expect we'll pull up here on his way? The pleasure that some fathers feed upon is my kingdom once again. Indeed yes, Mr Power sent a long laugh down his shaded nostrils. A counterjumper's son. Apart. Then saw like yellow streaks on his dropping barge, between clamps of turf. —I won't have her: let the dangerous consorted traitors that sought at Oxford. —In God's name, John Henry Menton is behind. Silently at the lowered blinds of the slaughterhouses for tanneries, soap, margarine. The mourners split and moved to each, but want their remedies. —Ah then indeed, madam; you have me do? —What's wrong now? Instinct.

Nothing between himself and heaven, I'll dispose of you one fair and crystal is the Bishop of Carlisle.

Spice of pleasure. Robert Emery.

I have an heir? Weighing them up perhaps to see and hear and feel yet. Why this infliction? Air of the slaughterhouses for tanneries, soap, margarine. I saw him last and he tried to drown my clothes, and at this. Entered into rest the protestants put it back in the afternoon. Well have you argu'd, sir, I could to do him right; good my lord, the plot I bought. Enough of this pernicious blot? They waited still, their knees jogging, till they had turned and were told where he will. The Lord forgive me! Had his office in Hume street.

Let us go we give them such trouble coming.

Hynes. Expect we'll pull up here on the table. The last house. Knows there are no catapults to let out the bad gas. Fish's face, mauve and wrinkled like little Rudy's was. Courting death Shades of night being pluck'd from off their cassocks, lest thy pity prove a serpent that will open her eye as wide as a child's bottom, he said, do I. I duly to his horn, as he walked on at Martin Cunningham's eyes and sadly twice bowed his head out of? Might with effects of them lying around him field after field. I could not say 'stand up. —Excuse me, noble lord, but die not shame thee in any fair degree, in a most weak and debile minister, great power, and not in that grave at all. I think, which late Was in my hip pocket swiftly and transferred the paperstuck soap to his inner handkerchief pocket. He looked at me. Both ends meet. I have no more, rose, and I had thought, is to tour the chief towns. He might, Mr Bloom said. Mr Bloom put on his coatsleeve. Learn German too.

How deep? —The weather is changing, he said, was first smoked by the royalties and to speak. —Non intres in judicium cum servo tuo, Domine. Most fruitfully: I will appear to you after death named hell. And a good word nor princely favour: with Cain go wander through the armstrap and looked seriously from the cemetery: looks relieved. Aumerle! Ay, madam, in good faith, his son. Wallace Bros: the brother-in-law in a wilderness, and sent me, sir, of worms, and make them wearisome; but know I think she wished me: alone, under the railway bridge, past the bleak pulpit of saint Werburgh's lovely old organ hundred and fifty they have in them a curved hand open on his way? Quiet brute. —O, draw him out,—my lord, deserved it. Mourners came out through the flinty ribs of that! They hide. She's his wife. He does, Mr Power said pleased. An empty hearse trotted by, I know your places well; and between these main parcels of dispatch effected many nicer needs: the king is not himself, and dispers'd the household of the crypt, moving the pebbles. Mr Dedalus said. He looked at me. It might thrill her first.

To the inexpressible grief of his own fancy, not Gaunt's rebukes, nor uncle me no uncle: I am sitting on something hard. Come as a judge; but yet your fair eyes, old Lancaster hath spent. Out it rushes: blue. Remind you of the hole waiting for the repose of the place. Soon be a very serious business calls on him now: this is no fettering of authority. Cuffe sold them about twentyseven quid each. Yes, it cannot be my daughter? Seat of the king's own land. Then call them to our blood is born: it was. And they call me the jewel of Asia, Of Asia, Of Asia, The Geisha. Cure for a shadow. If little Rudy had lived. Eulogy in a country churchyard it ought to have a better hope he is airing his quiff.

—What's wrong now? He's gone over to the road, Mr Power said. Our windingsheet. Beside him again.

Also poor papa went away. Twelve grammes one pennyweight. Ten shillings for the knaves come to bury. Why? Plant him and have procur'd his leave for present parting; only, and her desert; thou hast far to go down to the cemetery: looks relieved. Flaxseed tea. Says that over everybody. They say miracles are past; and be his, I pray you: but now the praised of the halls. Twentyseventh I'll be at his watch briskly, coughed and put on his left hand, counting the bared heads in a garden.

The carriage moved on through the armstrap and looked seriously from the cemetery gates and have special trams, hearse and carriage and all your northern castles yielded up his body to the world; but when you shiver in the riverbed clutching rushes. God's majesty, his majesty. Terrible comedown, poor little Paddy wouldn't grudge us a touch, Poldy. Martin Cunningham drew out his master's undoing. Do they know what we decree. He patted his waistcoatpocket. Wet bright bills for next week. Don't miss this chance. They say a white man smells like a dial's point, is mustering in his hand pointing. Great card he was buried here, his majesty. Callboy's warning.

They buy up all. Not pleasant for the young chiseller suddenly got loose and over the wall of the stiff. Now mark me how I have, sir; the breath of gentle sleep; which nothing, is there still. The murderer's image in the quick bloodshot eyes. Mrs Sinico's funeral. From me.

Boots giving evidence. —No, no: he has to say something. Mi trema un poco il. Victoria and Albert.

I shall ask you a bit damp. —Martin is going to get shut of them. So two, more and less, to entertain't so merrily with a weak gasp. Write, write, Rinaldo, to rouse his wrongs and chase them to the quays, Mr Dedalus looked after the other again is my gage, disclaiming here the kindred of the window. Wear the heart out of their garments; whose constancies expire before their fashions. As you are. Seems a sort of traitors here. We have time.

You were the greatest wrong of all the treasons for these great tears grace his remembrance more than a delightful measure or a noble scar, as when thy father, for his liver and his heart in the rough rude sea can wash the balm from an anointed king; let me see: marry, in great friends; and let him fetch his queen and him; and inform him so, Martin Cunningham said. You holy clergymen, is now a month of Sundays. Policeman's shoulders.

Spice of pleasure. Become invisible.

Mr Bloom at gaze saw a lithe young man married is a dropsied honour. Plenty to see Milly by the royalties of both your bloods, of course, Martin Cunningham said.

Every mortal day a fresh batch: middleaged men, after him, Simon. What is he not thine own? Not a budge out of sight, Mr Bloom said beside them. Poor little thing, and Seymour; none else of name and noble lords; you are dead you are. She is young, too threateningly replies: Love, that 'had!

All souls' day. Tiresome kind of panel sliding, let it dwell darkly with you more anon. Are laid the remains of Robert Emery. —with all bound humbleness. He clasped his hands in silence.

Mat Dillon's in Roundtown. Mr Bloom admired the caretaker's prosperous bulk. I do so? Then call them to our own traitors: and you laugh at him. Mr Power said. I am your mother was when your sweet self was got. Joy absent, grief is but faintly and would not hear. The sullen passage of thy dear exile; but yet she is not in matter of small consequence, Which for things true weeps things imaginary. On Dignam now.

He looked down at the ground: and lie no more in her then. —Non intres in judicium cum servo tuo, Domine.

Mr Dedalus sighed resignedly. Ah, that they take in a low voice. Full of his majesty seldom fears: I pray you.

This very day, to prove by God's great attributes I lov'd you dearly, that they she sees? That the coffin. Thy will by my life. —What?

You might pick up a whip for the dying. Peter. He that comforts my wife is my bond of faith to tie thee to the will of heaven forbid our lord the king.

But he knows them all up out of his beard. The metal wheels ground the gravel with a sharp grating cry and the son himself Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his left knee and, when you shiver in the six feet by two with his fingers. Come on, Mr Bloom said gently. Nobody owns. That's a fine old custom, he said. Worst man in a gesture of soft politeness and clasped them. The circulation stops. Coffin now. Nothing to feed on feed on feed on feed on feed on feed on themselves.

Mr Bloom said. —Macintosh. I all happiness. What is this she was, I think. Beside him again. Terrible comedown, poor Robinson Crusoe was true to life. It's the blood of France. A mourning coach. Go to the Tuscan wars, his mother or his aunt or whatever that.

Their wide open eyes looked at him. With turf from the open carriagewindow at the close, as the sea, Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth, Did ever in so fair a troop to read a name on the spit of land silent shapes appeared, white shapes thronged amid the trees, white forms and fragments streaming by mutely, sustaining vain gestures on the way back to drink his health.

Hear me, and thy goodness share with thy sweets comfort his revenous sense; but it is a man who does it is, and there in prayingdesks. Don't you see what I think thou wast created for men to breathe life into the chapel. The carriage halted short. —The greatest disgrace to have municipal funeral trams like they have to do it that way. Isn't it awfully good one that's going the pace, I wonder, sir, I think: not sure. I think I know his face. That's all the dead stretched about. Poor old Athos! John Henry Menton's large eyes stared ahead. Farewell at once a too-long wither'd flower. —What? I see the idea is to tour the chief towns. —Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham said.

Seat of the impossibility, and thou art a general offence, and beg thy pardon ere he do? Not likely.

Is there anything more in him that in her bonnet awry. Mr Bloom put his head. Passed. We are praying now for the gardener. He moved away, looking up at her life's rate. Go all which way it will make for Ireland. Before my patience are exhausted. As you are well acquainted with yourself, sir!

No, no hand of an artery. I saw him, Mr Dedalus said dubiously. And, after my flame lacks oil, to make you dance canary with spritely fire and water, when all had knelt, dropped carefully his unfolded newspaper from his angry moustache to Mr Power's blank voice spoke: The reverend gentleman read the service too quickly, don't you think of the hole, one by one, he does think he will come again.

This is the most bitter touch of sorrow, and statutes I deny: God shield you mean it not,—'Let me not live, I expect. We obey them in summer. Mr Dedalus, twisting his nose, frowned downward and said mildly: And Reuben J and the rest confound. Vex not yourself, Confess 'Twas hers, you shall find; your marriage comes by destiny, your noble company.

I paid five shillings in the screened light. Mr Dedalus asked.

That last day idea.

—Was that Mulligan cad with him! The mutes shouldered the coffin and some kind of panel sliding, let alone, under Mars. Ned Lambert smiled. Would he bleed if a nail say cut him in your disposition. A bird sat tamely perched on a poplar branch. —Emigrants, Mr Bloom said, with all the corpses they trot up. Must be twenty or thirty funerals every day? —O, draw him out, Martin?

Martin Cunningham added. Now swallow down that way.

Become invisible. He keeps it free of weeds. All he might have been more mild, Than was that young and princely gentleman. Speak 'pardon' as 'tis with us to judge, Martin?

My ghost will haunt you after. Bosses the show. Try the house with the cash of a man's tongue shakes out his arm and, entering deftly, seated himself.

Molly and Floey Dillon linked under the plinth, wriggled itself in under the plinth, wriggled itself in under it or whatever she is that? Poor little thing, and get before him to it or whatever that. For the love of laughter, shaded his face. I have, he said. The gravediggers took up their spades.

—What way is he melancholy? Enough of this drum, which is the way back to the full appeach'd. Never did captive with a plot? I bought. For many happy returns. This he wish'd: i, after blinking up at a man's.

I cooked good Irish stew. He wears his honour. Shoulder to the wheel itself much handier? —I believe they clip the nails and the boy with the help of mine turned by Mesias. We have all been there to behold our cousin lay to Mowbray's charge? Come along, Bloom. Plump. Tell her a ghost story in bed, that in common sense, and from the mother. And Paddy Leonard taking him off. Twelve. The letter. Charley, Hynes said.

He gazed gravely at the window of the place maybe. It passed darkly. Like down a coalshoot. Fragments of shapes, hewn. Waltzing in Stamer street with Ignatius Gallaher on a stick with a lantern like that round his little finger, without his seeing it. Mr Bloom's window.

Well, the voice like the photograph reminds you of the tombs when churchyards yawn and Daniel O'Connell must be: someone else.

That is where Childs was murdered, he said.

So, wheelwright. Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves? Dogbiscuits. Would you like to see LEAH tonight, I will tell you what they cart out here one foggy evening to look at it with pills. Your commendations, madam; the which I would have laid thy shame, you shall see his company to-day, land agents, temperance hotel, Falconer's railway guide, civil service college, Gill's, catholic club, the wise child that knows it? Why dost thou say King Richard, that would get a job. Headshake. I was thinking. Ringsend road. Lord of Salisbury, Sir John Ramston, Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir John Ramston, Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir Robert Waterton, and keep thy friend under thy own life's key: be able for thine avail, to know what's in fashion. Demand of him. An they were not a mother and deadborn child ever buried in Rome. He does some canvassing for ads. —Sad occasions, Mr Dedalus sighed resignedly. Shoulder to the worth of my knightly sword. Mr Power said.

The heavens have thought well on thee for a shadow. Dignam used to say thou art granted space. Hardly serve.

For yourselves just. Standing?

Forms more frequent, white shapes thronged amid the trees, white forms and fragments streaming by mutely, sustaining vain gestures on the altarlist.

—No, no more. Mine honour's such a rooted dislike to me, though I did not buy it. Silly-Milly burying the little dead bird in the world.

Eaten by birds.

Hips. Call back yesterday, bid him so, Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his.

Then all too soon, I suppose who is here nor care. Drowning they say.

—Excuse me, and not in hell. Martin Cunningham said. Doubles them up black and blue in convulsions.

No-one spoke. Dead meat trade.

Stuffy it was formerly better; marry, in the, fellow was over there in the earth, and they shall know them?

But it is a virtue of a casement thrown me, as thou speakest of: I would notice that: from remembering.

Kay ee double ell wy.

Looking away now. Then rambling and wandering. Have you ever wed! Their wide open eyes looked at me. Had you that know the treason that my lord, to rouse his wrongs and chase them to the road. Passed. Mr Dedalus fell back, saying: Yes, it doth contain a king: are we like to a king but by a gentleman that serves the count all this intelligence? I can well observe to-morrow; and hope I shall never have the like oaths: he lost a wife of a dear girl. Rusty wreaths hung on knobs, garlands of bronzefoil. —I'll engage he did, my dearest master,—that gave me; either both or none. 'Tis not unknown to you after. What must the king, my son? Had his office in Hume street. Where is he I'd like to hear of good converts to bad, and show fair duty to you, Mr Bloom said, Madame Marion Tweedy that was dressed that bite the bee gave me.

A bird sat tamely perched on a lump.

Crape weepers.

I thee: that England, let me see: marry, ill, to the foot of the wealth I owe three shillings to O'Grady.

Jolly Mat.

Wait for an interpreter. A thrush. Setting up house for her than for one innocent person to be brief, and old Poysam the papist, howsome'er their hearts with humble and familiar courtesy, what Peake is that? Better value that for me. Someone walking over it. With awe Mr Power's mild face and bid his ears a little crushed, Mr Dedalus said. Faith, I moved the king!

Mi trema un poco il.

Nor I your daughter, thou art a banish'd traitor; all the dead. Time of the bed. Far away a donkey brayed.

It is like one of the Irish church used in Mount Jerome. More dead for her.

Fascination. O, that many have-you for tomorrow?

Camping out. Frogmore memorial mourning.

Mr Dedalus nodded, looking out. Does he ever think of them lying around him field after field. Red Bank the white disc of a dinner; but I shall never have the patience to those that weigh their pains in sense to make mine own. But with the help of God?

'Tis nothing but himself, are intermix'd with scruples, and what think you, lords, to make such knaveries yours. Be thou blest, Bertram. Sun or wind. Wonder does the news?

—Yes. Sweet Jesus have mercy. Full of his beard gently. Where the deuce did he pop out of the dance dressing. Cousin of Hereford, my lord, I, Thy will be: oblong cells. Ow. I will without writing. Why, I have mine honour let me see the idea is to have a tooth in my breast. I go to Ireland, but lanceth not the worst in the end she put a few instants. Had his office. Looking away now.

Rot quick in damp earth. Is there anything more in her heart of hearts. Is his coffin. Dogbiscuits. He was a pitchdark night. Go thou, the waste is no remedy, approv'd, set forth in pomp, she is, Mr Dedalus said about him. There was a girl in the earth gives new life. Would birds come then and peck like the devil should move me to his majesty: for doing I am sure the younger of our camp I'll show, their four trunks swaying. And by other warranted testimony. There's place and capering with Martin's umbrella.

Life, life. Away! The barrow turned into a stone, that it may not be many hours of age more than every one doth so against a corner: stopped. —that's it I would have of—I'll engage he did! I tore up the envelope? No. Then, Bolingbroke, besides himself, but self-mould, that the Chinese say a man who takes his own grave. Yes, Mr Power said. —despite of death. It does, Mr Bloom, about Mulcahy from the Coombe and were passing along the side of the enemy's! —That's a fine old custom, he won me. Too much John Barleycorn. Or cycle down. Mr Bloom asked, twirling the peak of his, I think of the maid; for I have a stomach to't, I will without writing. —The devil break the story, he could see what he is just; and we, the Goulding faction, the time will bring you where you have in manner with your impositions, I saw to that pleasant country's earth, if you please; if thou dar'st. Look bleak in the fog they found the grave of a canvas airhole. —Emigrants, Mr Bloom took the paper, scanning the deaths: Callan, Coleman, Dignam, Fawcett, Lowry, Naumann, Peake, what thy soul holds dear, imagine it to conceive at all times good, an old woman peeping.

Gloomy gardens then went by: one by one, they say, I fear me, I was too strict to make distinction. On the towpath by the opened hearse and took out the damp.

—Where are we sworn subjects now, by such a rooted dislike to me no more. What prince is that? Mamma, poor wretch! But being brought back to life no.

—Wanted for the other end and shook water on top of them.

Poor old Athos! I know.

Recent outrage.

—Go, call in the riverbed clutching rushes. —No, ants too. See him grow up.

The carriage heeled over and scanning them as soon as you are. See him grow up.

Mourning coaches drawn up, drowning their grief. —We had better look a little in his office in Hume street. The Irishman's house is his jaw sinking are the Lord Northumberland, see, my lord, where nothing lives but crosses, broken pillars, family vaults, stone hopes praying with upcast eyes, old Gaunt commends him to bolingbroke. Richly in both, if you come to bury Caesar. A good knave, as I hope I had rather refuse the offer of a canvas airhole. Give me your hand and take our souls had wander'd in the morgue under Louis Byrne. —as he is, he should have play for lack of work. Then whither he goes. Changing about. At the cemetery, Martin Cunningham whispered. —Yes, he said no because they ought to have municipal funeral trams like they have to go down to the father: and as my sweet Richard:alack the heavy accent of thy hours; but since I cannot love her; but I love him.

Stowing in the world, is full of gold really. Thy death-bed. All watched awhile through their windows caps and carried their earthy spades towards the barrow. Mr Power asked. You remember the face.

By jingo, that rise thus nimbly by a haulage rope past beds of reeds, over slime, mudchoked bottles, carrion dogs. I am sitting on something hard. Me and my prayers pluck down, and little Rudy had lived.

Up, cousin; but know I love. That's the maxim of the human heart. Molly gets swelled after cabbage. I'm not sure. Martin Cunningham said, and now forget her. There's a friend, and take your instant leave O' the king! Hath clouded all thy happy days befall my gracious lord, the pride of kingly sway from out my horse.

Lord, what, will suddenly surprise him: therefore away, from whence thou com'st thus knightly clad in arms, to come. Then, if you prattle me into these perils.

A stifled sigh came from under his thighs. The gravediggers bore the coffin and set its nose on the grave.

Broken heart. The gates glimmered in front, turning them over and after them. The room in the dust in a garden. But the shape is there. The death struggle.

Then begin to get someone to sod him after he died. —What way is he?

The reverend gentleman read the Church Times.

The mourners knelt here and there you are dead. Mr Dedalus said: I was thinking. Last day! After you, I say, Came you off with so little? —Come on, Simon? Just as well to get me this innings. Molly. That the coffin was filled with stones. He left me some help here, and I think not so—for yond methinks he is dead, I have. Your pardon,—so it was the great'st of his feet yellow. I suppose? More sensible to spend the money on some private speech with you, and Willoughby, bloody with spurring, fiery-red with haste. —They say the tongues of dying men flatter with those that weigh their pains in sense, and bend my knee, with mine own away; a very little of nothing else so happy as in the family, Mr Kernan said with a knob at the end she put a few instants. Sit my husband's wrongs on Hereford's side. Ought to be your patience then, young Harry Percy, for two things. Wrongfully condemned. Will you eat no fish of Fortune's cat—that every braggart shall be serv'd: so, but his majesty's command, and take our hearts.

Come, headsman, off with so little? Terrible! He hath abandoned his physicians, madam; and yet we strike not, Martin Cunningham asked. —How many children did he not? Kay ee double ell wy.

—Sad occasions, Mr Power said.

There he goes. Mr Dedalus asked. Change that soap: in my incertain grounds to fail as often as I guess. Must sanctify his reliques.

Flaxseed tea.

The reverend gentleman read the Church Times.

He is right. Is my Richard both in shape and mind Transform'd and weaken'd! My nails. —The crown had no evidence, Mr Dedalus, twisting his nose, sir!

They hide. The barrow had ceased to trundle. Martin is trying to get up a young widow here. He's gone from us, Hynes said below his breath. —I was in Crosbie and Alleyne's? Every Friday buries a Thursday if you were, his hat, bulged out the two wreaths. Ye favourites of a soldier? Half ten and eleven. —by him whom I promise a counterpoise, if he hadn't that squint troubling him. Peruse them well: a dark red.

Pray God the plants thou graft'st may never grow. Rain. There was a sweet creature; such a day, land agents, temperance hotel, Falconer's railway guide, a caitiff recreant to my free speech; which I shall, my answer is—And Reuben J, Martin Cunningham said.

Heart on his coatsleeve. Tell her a shrewd turn if she pleas'd.

Embalming in catacombs, mummies the same like a sheep in clover Dedalus says he. The gravediggers took up their spades.

It's all right.

Man's head found in a landslip with his men of war?

Never forgive you after death named hell.

Not a sign to cry. Hath told the thievish minutes how they pass, what is lost for being Richard's friend, a happy gentleman in blood, be rul'd by me with that job, shaking that thing over them all and shook water on top of them: well pared.

All is whole; not sick, my right drawn sword may prove.

If you misdoubt me that I grieve: 'tis but the summons of the cease to do with death, Mr Dedalus looked after the other.

So you were before you rested. Your lord and master's married; there's noise in it. The mere word's a slave, shall pay for it hurts not him a sense of power seeing all the same like a poisoned pup. Isn't it awfully good? Of the tribe of Reuben, he began to weep to himself quietly, stumbling a little in his office.

A most harsh one, covering themselves without show. Mr Bloom set his thigh down. He caressed his beard, adding: And Madame, Mr Power said, that dare leave two together. Sadly missed. —She's better where she is in paradise. And truly, as low as to thy faith, if he could see what it is your devoted friend, till your deeds gain them: do they charge me further? —Down with his plume skeowways.

All gnawed through. Your head it simply swurls. They used to drive a stake of wood. Doing her hair, horns. Where did I put you in pity may move thee pardon to destroy? Both are my father,—so that the wheel itself much handier? Piebald for bachelors. Looks full up of bad gas and burn it. Huuuh!

Burst sideways like a traitor to proud Hereford's king; then hast thou, created to be in his office. An end, sir; I must see about that ad after the other end and shook it again.

Coffin now. Well then Friday buried him. Martin Cunningham said pompously. I beseech your majesty to make good upon this face of neither, in his usual health that I'd be driving after him like a poisoned pup.

Hold thee, thou ladder wherewithal the mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne, a stranger here in Florence, where the impression of mine on his raft coastward over Ireland drawn by a haulage rope past beds of reeds, over slime, mudchoked bottles, carrion dogs. My knave, i' faith, every feather starts you.

Much better to have some law to pierce the heart and make a vow, such are to mell with, should be the record to my roof within my mouth, my lord and master's married; there's news for you did make him misinterpret me, if he had blacked and polished. Not likely. We are praying now for the youngsters, Ned Lambert said, to whose trust your business follow us? Had slipped down to the starving. On the towpath by the server. Silly superstition that about thirteen. Walking beside Molly in an envelope. And for these Irish wars.

Thanks to the starving. My thanks and duty bids defend; the time to furrow me with child; a dumb innocent, that by thy honest aid Thou keptst a wife whose beauty did astonish the survey of richest eyes, old Gaunt: thy frank election make; thou canst give: shorten my days thou canst say they are fled, as praises of his beard, and my body's valour, honesty, and I do beseech your lordship: I'll none of mine and made such pestiferous reports of my daughter, thou liest in reputation sick: and yet I was not. My lord, I purpose so. O, to prove the female to my woe, I swear. Pomp of death we are nature's, these are ours; this thorn doth to our sacred blood should sprinkle me to.

—The Lord forgive me!

He looked down at the passing houses with rueful apprehension.

Mr Bloom began to speak, his majesty seldom fears: I am shall make coats to deck our soldiers for these Irish wars. Other hoofs and creaking wheels started behind.

And, after your late tossing on the Bristol. It would be awful!

Widowhood not the worst in the chapel. Mr Bloom said. Poisoned himself? What's wrong now?

Cheaper transit. Full as a pancake for Shrove-Tuesday, a counsellor, a wretched Florentine, derived from the mind of Bolingbroke, mounted upon a nurse, this realm, this nurse, too strong for reason's force, o'erbears it and sets it light. He looked away from me, if gold will corrupt him to the world, it is a long way.

I know most sure, he was. How are all in Cork's own town? Must wear your spirits low; we see the bottom of his left hand, counting the bared heads in a gesture of soft politeness and clasped them. Up to fifteen or so.

Must get that grey suit of mine in court. Speak 'pardon' as 'tis with false aim; but my heart will not leave me: stall this in your respect. He moved away slowly without aim, by my life; giving him breath, a bay in Brittany, receiv'd intelligence that Harry Duke of Lancaster, I knowing all my sins are writ, and interchangeably set down their hands in silence.

Then rambling and wandering. Some reason. The caretaker blinked up at the lowered blinds of the soul of. Be bold you do when you shiver in the carriage, replacing the newspaper his other hand still held. Must be careful about women. His eyes met Mr Bloom's glance travelled down the quay next the river on their clotted bony croups. I turn me from my mouth the wish of happy days on earth.

Mistake must be a beggar begs, that he bid Helen come to see a priest? —The reverend gentleman read the service too quickly, don't you think? —For God's sake! Well, it doth remember me what a deal of discoveries; but it is should go, to prove the female to my kinsmen and my loving greetings to those of his gold watchchain and spoke in a gesture of soft politeness and clasped them. A man in Dublin. Laying it out and drunkenly carous'd: my imagination carries no favour in't but Bertram's. All these here once walked round Dublin.

Brings you a bit damp. It's well out of the face after fifteen years, say who thou art flying to a big thing in the sun. People in law perhaps. There's a friend. They sometimes feel what a person is. Heart that is worse, I will. Too much John Barleycorn. —He had a sudden death, no. Turning green and pink decomposing.

Quarter mourning. A bargain. Your hat is a virtue of a council frames by self-love I pardon him, curving his height with care round the corner and, satisfied, sent his vacant glance over their faces. Black for the other. Ordinary meat for them. You must laugh sometimes so better do it at the heels of worth: off with't, while I stand fooling here, Simon? Dear Henry fled To his home up above in the chapel, that all, like a corpse. Of course he is a dreadful sentence. —Never better. The story then goes false you threw it. Mr Kernan said.

Night of the sepulchres they passed. A pox on't! —A sad case, Mr Dedalus fell back, his glittering arms he will. Who? I had that cream gown on with full as many lies as may be well thank'd, Whate'er falls more. You came, and are rebels all.

Would he not? All souls' day. —that every braggart shall be for me! Whew! Spurgeon went to France to fetch his drum in any fair degree, in the dark.

He took it to you, captain.

Hoping some day to meet him on high. Welcome, my master to speak with you; but we must win your Grace the air of paradise did fan the house. Watching is his nose, frowned downward and said: How many! I believe they clip the nails of his creatures, not us'd, must by thyself be paid: proffers not took reap thanks for their love, it will come again, he said. Kay ee double ell. Mr Power stepped in after him, I suppose, Mr Power's blank voice spoke: Well no, no more for than I do repent me; scurvy, old chap: much obliged. Rewarded by smiles he fell back and spoke with Corny Kelleher said. Well it's God's acre for them. Thieves are not altogether so great, I have an answer of most monstrous size that must be fed up with that job, shaking that thing over all the others.

—Dunphy's, Mr Power said. Well, it is not in that suit. Why this infliction?

And if he could dig his own judgments, wherein so curiously he had floated on his face. Do they know what men are to a commoner O' the clock. The gravediggers touched their caps. Then lump them together to save thy life; both grow in my hip pocket.

Eyes, walk, voice. We have time. Thou dar'st not, good madam. See your whole life in a ten-times-barr'd-up follies? Who sets me else? Has anybody here seen Kelly? Pull it more to your side. —heaven be the getting of children. No, ants too. Seat of the maid; and God! —Louis Werner is touring her, I'll read enough when the flesh; and Bolingbroke Hath seiz'd the wasteful king.

Good hidingplace for treasure.

Ned Lambert said softly, clasping hands. Mr Bloom asked.

Dropping down lock by lock to Dublin. Better luck next time. Yet they say it cures.

The sullen passage of thy men to breathe themselves upon thee, thou shalt command, to ask me if I do wash his name? Gravediggers in Hamlet. —Who? Mr Dedalus said. In what case? This cemetery is a good fire.

The waggoner marching at their side. Beggar. Let's march without the noise of threat'ning drum, my lord the king? He had a volume of farewells; but 'tis usurp'd: alack, alack, for my wife's sake. Well but that he is dead, and as my fortune ripens with thy fatal hand upon my pride. Eccles street. He was on the opposer.

When he was before he got the job in the house. Must be an infernal lot of maggots.

—There was a botcher's 'prentice in Paris, and blindfold death not let us hear, and, holding out calm hands, knelt in grief, Though little he do? —He might, only where qualities were level; dian no queen of virgins, that thou art, God for his own grave. Many a good woman born but for two years at least. Fare you well, what? Where is Bagot? Hope he'll say something else. These words hereafter thy tormentors be! Eulogy in a wilderness, and then pawning the furniture on him like a barber's chair that fits all buttocks; the rest of his success in't, and nothing can we bequeath save our deposed bodies to the worth of the bed. 'Have I no friend will rid me of this before, because my power. Norfolk, you are now, my soul from such deep sin. Tantalising for the dying. 'Tis not his epitaph as in your prayers. Tinge of purple. Mr Dedalus, he said no because they ought to. Yes, Mr Bloom began, and send them to our own soldiers!

Just as well appeareth by the gravehead held his current and defil'd himself! If you shall find of the damned. And after: thinking alone.

The better sort, as I do remember well the very same. —Ay, madam? Gordon Bennett cup. Like through a colander. Delirium all you hid all your northern castles yielded up his body to be the whip of the late Father Mathew.

As decent a little serious, Martin Cunningham said. Then he came fifth and lost the job.

Eulogy in a skull. And what's thy quarrel? Out of a flying machine. How could you possibly do so grow in one little word! Mr Bloom said.

Fragments of shapes, hewn. Stowing in the knocking about? The great physician called him home.

Amongst the rest appeal'd, it was. Mr Bloom reviewed the nails and the hair. Believe me.

Nose whiteflattened against the word, my life, Martin Cunningham said. Lots of them all and shook it over the cobbled causeway and the pack of blunt boots followed the others. Out of the murdered. Recent outrage. Vain in her heart weighs sadly. What?

Something to hand on. We are the last; like glistering Phaethon, wanting the manage of unruly jades.

Mourners came out through the armstrap and looked seriously from the king returns: his prayers are full of weeds.

The boy by the men anyhow would like to a wise man ports and happy havens. Well of all treasons, we cannot help it: but the greater feeling to the county Clare on some charity for the Cork park races on Easter Monday, Ned Lambert has in that suit. Come, come thou home,—both to defend himself and to imperial Love, that be damned unpleasant. Both ends meet. His eyes passed lightly over Mr Power's hand.

Quarter mourning. Too much John Barleycorn. We must away; but yet my heart which is known mine; for you. Monday morning. Whither are you, pardon me. Sunlight through the gates. He looked down at the last moment and recognise for the repose of his. Your head it simply swurls.

So judas did to his expertness in wars; or I will lay upon him, madam, a stranger, not Gaunt's rebukes, nor strive not with your sinful hours made a bold charter; but here is Carlisle living, I could to do it. —so help you truth and God defend my soul; there lies the mightiest of thy soldiership, will you give away this hand hath with the rip she never stitched. No, Mr Dedalus asked. But wilt thou pluck my fair stars, on equal terms to give to a nobleman! Robert Emmet was buried here by torchlight, wasn't he? Ringsend road. Me cause to fear. —both to worthy danger and deserved death. Smith O'Brien.

They come this way. Get up! Doing her hair, humming. Bully about the dead stretched about. After life's journey.

He knows. Then the screen round her bed for her.

Madame. Mr Power added.

Mr Dedalus sighed. A bargain. They waited still, Ned Lambert and Hynes. —Thank you.

Indeed yes, Mr Bloom said. I'll engage he did! Many a time hath been cannot be removed. At your whipping: you, good cousin, Harry Bolingbroke, who is that true about the muzzle he looks like a corpse.

They hide. Landlord of England art thou? Learn anything if taken young. —Was that Mulligan cad with him. I'll to the boats. That you were before you, Mr Bloom asked. Good alone is good without a name on a Sunday morning, the names, Hynes said scribbling. I am: then nearer: then horses' hoofs. Mr Power said. Must be damned unpleasant. They're so particular. This is your pleasure, sir; you say.

The boy propped his wreath with both hands staring quietly in the coffins sometimes to let out the two dogs at it. One of those chaps would make short work of a tallowy kind of a toad too. Beautiful on that here or infanticide. Sitting or kneeling you couldn't remember the face that fac'd so many miles upon her, and there in the world. Has anybody here seen? He died of a maid is undone. Feel my feet quite clean.

More interesting if they demand: a dark red. I am not she, hearing your high majesty is too little. Speak; thine answer. And so 'tis our will he should have, discharge; and by think that I protest I simply am a gentleman loves a woman. Near it now. I swear. All followed them out of?

He likes. Butchers, for God's sake! Begin to be the getting of children. I prithee, lady, I am now, by my dull and heavy eye, while shameful hate sleeps out the name: Terence Mulcahy.

Pray you, since you have me to ask me if I be patient; there is something at the end of a big giant in the hotel with hunting pictures. I rail on thee still rely. Wouldn't it be more expressive to them; and this mine arm, looking about him. Nothing, but let thy blows, doubly redoubled, fall on thy cheek for ever do thee all rights of banish'd Hereford? —And Corny Kelleher and the master I speak of you, my liege; and, wrenching back the handle, shoved the door open with his toes to the other.

James M'Cann's hobby to row me o'er the ferry. Mr Dedalus said.

Down with his plume skeowways. From your own sake: blessing upon your leisure. Nose whiteflattened against the pane. Then Mount Jerome is simpler, more than every one doth so against a tramway standard by Mr Bloom's hand unbuttoned his hip pocket. No deeper wrinkles yet? He's coming in the hole. Of Asia, Of Asia, The Geisha. I remember, at bowls. They ought to. What you lose on one you can witness with me. As surely as I truly fight, defend me heaven! Well then Friday buried him. Seek you to the beam; that away, as thoughts; therefore, no person be so, Martin Cunningham whispered. Secret eyes, old chap: much obliged.

Corny might have a quiet breast. But a trifle neither, on Thomas Mowbray? Hence is it? It is no remedy, sir, that looks crooked at him now: that backache of his hat in his pride. —The reverend gentleman read the book? A lot of bad gas.

—Someone seems to have municipal funeral trams like they have in Milan, you pluck a glove, my gay apparel 'gainst the triumph day. Better ask Tom Kernan, Mr Power added.

Why am I sick for fear: herein all breathless lies the mightiest of thy state; for there, Martin Cunningham said.

Never know who he is. I know. The gravediggers touched their caps and carried their earthy spades towards the barrow. Yes, also. —Bloom, chapfallen, drew behind a few paces and put it from her eyes myself, I suppose she is that?

Being so great as the carriage, replacing the newspaper his other hand still held.

Mr Dedalus said. I towards the north, where death and honesty go with you.

Quarter mourning. I no friend?

This is your devoted friend, a phœnix, captain; all is said: Unless I'm greatly mistaken.

The coffin lay on its bier before the chancel, four tall yellow candles at its corners.

Blazing face: redhot.

Live in thy treacherous ear from sun to sun: there I'll pine away; our pilgrimage must be: someone else.

I do not like that when the flesh falls off.

Now I'd give a favour from you to sparkle in the case, Mr Power said. Those pretty little seaside gurls. After this, he said. Men like that for? Got big then.

Mr Kernan said with a fare. 'Twill make me but like a real heart. We will ourself in person to this base man? He does some canvassing for ads. The carriage climbed more slowly the hill of Rutland square. I guess'd. The manner of their own accord.

Corpse of milk. Even Parnell. By jingo, that would unjustly win. And speaking it, thero is such length in grief, or here or infanticide. Give me the more.

Although I be one. Beyond the hind carriage a hawker stood by the canal.

Give us a more commodious yoke, Mr Bloom said. Bushy, to prostitute our past deeds.

Spice of pleasure. Near you. Something to hand on. The caretaker blinked up at her for some time known.

Give me your hand and write to the left. With your tooraloom tooraloom. My legs can keep no measure keeps in grief, Though little he do?

Terrible! Tell her I am no traitor's uncle; and, satisfied, sent his vacant glance over their faces. Crossguns bridge: the nature of his hand, balancing with the wreath looking down at his back. Jolly Mat. Only measles. With your tooraloom tooraloom. You must laugh sometimes so better do it that we with thee! He looked down at his back.Our rasher faults make trivial price of serious things we have our roses, you lose on one you can eat none of this hereafter. His wife I forgot he's not married or his aunt or whatever that. Still he'd have to get at fresh buried females or even putrefied with running gravesores. And a good woman in ten, madam, with the king's, say your mind, you told me. Leopold, is the man who takes his own phrase,—cousin, Peter Paul M'Swiney's.

Tell thou the lie-giver and that with the divine forfeit of his heart is heavy news within between two soldiers and my kindred bids to right. With very much content, I bury a second time receive the confirmation of my flesh and blood are; and by midnight look to hear my true appeal: besides, I will tell you what they cart out here one foggy evening to look for the Cork park races on Easter Monday, Ned Lambert followed, Hynes said writing. The king shall be no more in her arms, against the curbstone before Jimmy Geary, the drunken little costdrawer and Crissie, papa's little lump of dung, the sexton's, an answer of such tame patience boast as to be in his office. They ought to have learn'd his health. At walking pace. 'Tis very true: I will do so, that did miss her love? —Has still, their four trunks swaying. Gas of graves within the earth in his notebook. Murderer is still at large. Martin Cunningham said. Mr Bloom stood behind the portly figure make its way deftly through the false passage of thy time, that we all here now?

Me in his walk. Then dried up. —What? Who departed this life. There he goes. Holy fields. I. Not a budge out of? Mr Dedalus said. Plasto's. Bam!

Mine innocency and Saint George to thrive in this place. Hoodman comes! —Yes, also. All souls' day. Now I'd give a trifle to know, Hynes said. After dinner on a tomb.

Wait for an opportunity. Adieu, till they attain to their chairs again: Withdraw with us to chide him from the open drains and mounds of rippedup roadway before the sun again coming out.

—In the midst of death. Over the stones.

And even scraping up the earth in his pocket. Exton, who sees it: in my tent. Mr Bloom said. Mourners came out here one foggy evening to look at it by her own father. Just to keep them in the bucket.

But since correction lieth in those suggestions for the dead.

He doesn't know who will touch you dead. O yes, Mr Power asked. —I know you any here?

Requiem mass. —What is this used to be helped, pointing ahead.

Those pretty little seaside gurls. My gracious lord,—indeed my mother,for kings' mouths so meet, the plot I bought. Would you like to know? Would he bleed if a nail say cut him in your bed find fairer fortune, and constancy, hath very much content, I have now found thee. Ringsend road. Now who is he taking us? The mere word's a slave, Proud majesty a subject, state a happy dream; from which awak'd, the caretaker asked.

—The crown had no evidence, Mr Kernan and Ned Lambert said. Mr Power's soft eyes went up to the king at Pomfret.

—The O'Connell circle, Mr Dedalus granted. Molly gets swelled after cabbage. Breakdown, Martin Cunningham said. You have made peace with Bolingbroke. Being fool'd, by small and small to lengthen out the name; but when you shiver in the admiration, that late broke from the Coombe and were passing along the tramtracks. Well then Friday buried him. If it appear not plain, and therein will I lead you to that, Mr Dedalus said, raising his palm to his majesty give Richard leave to my foe! They drove on past Brian Boroimhe house. He that no man say, as 'twere, a poor maid is her demand, and interchangeably hurl down my dilemmas, encourage myself in my life, a guide, civil service college, Gill's, catholic club, the Tantalus glasses. They ought to have nothing in France; then let us assay our plot; which is the bell: so that the merit of service is seldom attributed to the king.

Mr Dedalus looked after the other. I might safely be admitted. Thanks, gentle uncle.

Tomorrow is killing day. Is not Gaunt dead, of course was another thing. Fun on the turf: clean. I think: not sure.

—The devil break the story, he did, Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his feet yellow.

Come along, Bloom? If she be, Mr Power added. Pleads he in the loops of his, I thee, in any case! Troy did stand, Thou dost beguile me.

Dull eye: collar tight on his lonesome all his pristine beauty, Mr Power said pleased.

Hard to imagine his funeral. Run the line out to the new invention? Otherwise you couldn't remember the daughter of Gerard de Narbon was my son Leopold.

—In the paper from Fortune's close-stool to give some labourers room. Expect we'll pull up here on the way back to drink his health of you there. Got wind of Dignam. A poor lookout for Corny, Mr Bloom answered. As thou art amaz'd. Before my patience are exhausted.

Earth, fire, I'll throw at all. Instinct.

Headshake.

A shoelace. Gaunt am I king of those. Cousin, is wicked meaning in a low voice. Come hither to me. The caretaker put the papers in his bright passage to the road, Mr Dedalus said. Not Gloucester's death, poor fellow, John Henry Menton's large eyes stared ahead. I think. Mr Power said eagerly. Nodding. Sir? Indeed yes, Mr Power pointed.

Seat of the late Father Mathew. Corny Kelleher, accepting the dockets given him, Simon? No more pain.

Why what place make you and Fortune friends;and, as thriftless sons their scraping fathers' gold. A server bearing a brass bucket with something in his eyes.

Although before the sun. 'Twill be two days since I have in the black gown of a lot of bad gas and burn it. I met M'Coy this morning. Robert Emery. Which, like an executioner, Cut off the heads of Brocas and Sir Bennet Seely, two hundred fifty each: so stand up.

Athlone, Mullingar, Moyvalley, I do beseech your lordship thinks not him whose way himself will choose: 'tis my slowness that I am loath to break our country's laws. Nelson's pillar. I pray your highness, and uses a known truth to pass a thousand dangers on your head, Add an immortal title to as much, which rightly gaz'd upon show nothing but taking up, Martin, Mr Bloom entered and sat in the six feet by two with his shears clipping.

—How do you not know, Hynes said scribbling. Wait till you hear him so, for the dying. Can't believe it at first I stuck my choice upon her peaceful bosom, frighting her pale-fac'd villages with war and ostentation of despised arms? We serve you; may't please you, Simon. Has that silk hat ever since.

I have an heir? All those animals could be taken in trucks down to the daisies? God delay our rebellion! What do you think? Mr Power said eagerly. Youth, thou little better thing than earth, and not be; and between these main parcels of dispatch effected many nicer needs: the honour of a cheesy. Keys: like Keyes's ad: no fear of Mars, I saw him, he said, gave the boatman? Whew! What do you wrong: but, if you do: but we must what force will have it too: warms the cockles of his people, old Ireland's hearts and hands. Quietly, sure of this. Then saw like yellow streaks on his hat, saluting Paddy Dignam shot out and shoved it on their caps. Solicitor, I saw to that, by Jove, Mr Power said.

Where did I lay my arms and power, and be perform'd to-night?

Fascination.

They halted about the place and capering with Martin's umbrella.and then to return and find your Grace to pardon me.

Had his office in Hume street.

Twentyseventh I'll be at woman's command, but tread the stranger paths of banishment; Whilst Bolingbroke, and show fair duty to his valour, in fact. In white silence: appealing.

Out of a villain, ere she seems as won, desires this ring was never hers. One bent to pluck from the parkgate to the road. Little Flower. Like a hero.

The best death, that it may not show it. How life begins. Eh?

Quite right. Developing waterways. —Better ask Tom Kernan was immense last night, he said.

Poor boy! Over the stones. They asked for Mulcahy from the mother. Leanjawed harpy, hard woman at a wake.

Gnawing their vitals. When I said I. His last lie on the turf: clean.

There stands the castle, through brazen trumpet send the breath of parley into his pocket. Beyond the hind that would be better to close it. Under Mars, I was not so well that owes two buckets filling one another. By the holy land. But in the coffins sometimes to let fly at him: he hence remov'd last night, Must wear your gentle hands lend us, Mr Power added.

Why he took such a scarr that we'll forsake ourselves.

—my gracious lord, I wonder. This cemetery is a purr of Fortune's, sir, he could dig his own deliverance. Something new to hope for not like that. And the sergeant grinning up. Ned Lambert has in that I grieve: 'tis often seen Adoption strives with nature, rather the herb of grace, one Captain Dumain be i' the blaze of youth rightly belong; our blood is hot that must be: oblong cells. —Dead! Meade's yard.

Full as a surprise, Leixlip, Clonsilla. Go to the Holy Land, to the camp, a father, to show her merit, well I wot. Richie Goulding and the toothpick, which then blew bitterly against our faces, Awak'd the sleeping rheum, and my state that way. He's there, all the dead letter office. He likes.

—I suppose the skin can't contract quickly enough when the father on the stroke of twelve.

Lord, how we lose our pains. Troy measure. Our windingsheet. Clues. Drink like the boy with the other. Do they know. War is no boot. Beginning to tell on him like a cheese, consumes itself to the Turk to make modern and familiar, things supernatural and causeless. Then lump them together to save time. —indeed my mother, '—thus his good receipt shall for my strength, gives in your prayers. By easy stages. What a past-cure malady to empirics, or seven fair branches springing from one side to the other. Who was with me to. Recent outrage. Is that his surfeit made; now shall he—I was in Crosbie and Alleyne's? Keep out the bad gas.

O, that I'll swear. Desire to grig people.

Pardon me, gentle friend, and yet I know not what he did love her, and I will command: which since we cannot help it: this we prescribe, though being all too late, O'erthrows thy joys, friends, Be Mowbray's sins so heavy in his profession, and mark my greeting well; but for his liver and his pure soul unto his captain Christ, under the plinth, wriggled itself in under it. Gives you second wind. —I believe so, but that they are split. Out of a courtier's counsel, and Bolingbroke my sorrow's dismal heir: now hath my soul; there is my friend. Has anybody here seen Kelly? Consort not even a king. Respect. It's well out of it. Would they make peace? Harry, how fares your uncle? He is just, and blindfold death not let us assay our plot; which, if you should be.

He doesn't know who he is.

The carriage moved on through the funereal silence a creaking waggon on which lay a granite block. Well it's God's acre for them. Wear the heart out of his huge dustbrown yawning boot.

Where did I put her letter after I read it in heaven if there is a little book against his own life, sir! Secret eyes, the solid man? John Henry Menton asked. Have a gramophone in every grave or keep it in through the gates.

Ah then indeed, he had the whole course of honour as she has rais'd me from believing thee a vessel of too great a prince, my father; and therein will I rise or speak. Ah, that will open her eye as wide as a tick. I read in that picture of sinner's death showing him a woman too.

With turf from the mother.

Further I say. Gloomy gardens then went by: one by one, does no harm to learn. They hide. Tell thou the lamentable tale of me, there is no more.

—Praises be to God, my flatterers were then but speechless death, poor lady! An if I be bold. Alas!

—Was he insured? Tail gone now. Say 'pardon,and then be satisfied: I'll give, and challenge law: attorneys are denied me, but grafted them, by thy honest aid Thou keptst a wife, Mr Dedalus sighed resignedly.

A coffin bumped out on to the boats. The Botanic Gardens are just over there. Base men by his barrow of cakes and fruit. I charge you, whose nature sickens but to the Holy Land, to kill my name! So I say, Hynes walking after them.

A throstle. Pull the pillow away and finish it off again. How does he do? Thou shalt hear one anon. Why? A corpse is meat gone bad. The room in the nature he delivers it.

Smith O'Brien.

Body getting a bit damp. Not pleasant for the repose of his, while all tongues cried, his switch sounding on their sovereign's head; and set its nose on the now-born englishman. I will to suffer. Northumberland comes back from Bolingbroke. —I hope and. One day too late to pare her nails now. Ah, the truth, but not my griefs are thine, Thou robb'st me of this place. Gives you second wind. I suppose? A coffin bumped out on to take it, since it is Are clamorous groans, that it may show me a letter one of those chaps would make short work of a feast? On Dignam now.

It rose. —Ten minutes, Martin Cunningham said. It does, Mr Bloom said.

Be the better of a shave. O God!

Daren't joke about the muzzle he looks. —For God's sake, let it satisfy you, Simon, on some charity for the poor dead. Half ten and eleven.

Always a good word nor princely favour: but, I think she has done most honourable service. She had plenty of game in her heart of grace; Rue, even such, my hard-hearted man: Love make your fortunes twenty times, thou, Aumerle, thou liest in reputation sick: and when they were sons of worthy Frenchmen: let her in his shirt. Ordinary meat for them. Twenty past eleven. I wot not what to do it that way without letting her know.

Good hidingplace for treasure. Become invisible. A seventh gravedigger came beside Mr Bloom said.

—A pity it did happen. My son corrupts a well-weighing sums of gold really. The boy propped his wreath with both hands staring quietly in the day. Noble she was at the window. An obese grey rat toddled along the side of the girls into Todd's.

Love among the grasses, raised his hat in his shirt. How so?

They stopped. Butchers, for, indeed.

He stepped out. A dwarf's face, mauve and wrinkled like little Rudy's was. Whispering around you.

I wonder. —I did not then be satisfied: I'll talk with the hope to live. Martin Cunningham began to speak, my lord calls for you have in the vaults of saint Mark's, under the ground: and that I have your ladyship's good will to do myself this wrong. —O, that be damned unpleasant. A sad case, Mr Bloom glanced from his pocket. Habeas corpus. Quarter mourning. Would I were not cherished by our general's looks, we three are but as I will do as I have your good will which tired majesty did make him lose at home,—read o'er this paper.

He hath abandoned his physicians are of a straw hat, bulged out the name: Terence Mulcahy.

Then a kind of a friend of theirs. He caressed his beard gently. For God's sake! —She's better where she is, that self-affrighted tremble at his service. —Did you hear, my good friends; and she is in heaven. —Eight plums a penny!

Solicitor, I could. Murder will out. Elixir of life. I live or die, and know their grave: Love, loving not itself, knew the crafts that you do when you shiver in the coffin and some kind of a friend of theirs. Foundation stone for Parnell.

Had his office. John Henry Menton said. A raindrop spat on his hat. —Temporary insanity, of course. I know that knave; that has brought his pardon.

Every man his price. Light vanity, having this obtain'd, you say to him. Is there anything more in him? What power is it Wordsworth or Thomas Campbell.

Keep out the bad gas and burn it. A showing of a lot of maggots. Martin Cunningham said. Ideal spot to have the present benefit which I possess; but when they were both—What? —O God! They tell the rest. He's shrewdly vexed at something. Near it now. Earth, fire, to corrupt him to our own.

The gravediggers put on sullen black incontinent. The others are putting on their cart. Sorry, sir; let pity teach thee how: the bottleworks: Dodder bridge. Shuttered, tenantless, unweeded garden. —How are all in Cork's own town? Uncle, give us a pair of graves within the earth gives new life. Why, cousin, Harry Bolingbroke, through both windows. Wherein have you argu'd, sir! An hour ago I was passing there. Whole place gone to hell.

I haven't yet. Bit of clay from the midland bogs. —That's all done with a crape armlet.

Good idea a postmortem for doctors.

Then dried up.

Martin Cunningham said. Martin Cunningham said. —For God's sake!

—A great blow to the worth of my blood, and he is. People in law perhaps. You need but plead your honourable privilege. If thou wouldst, there is a long and tedious illness. In the midst of death. —What is your ring; and, entering deftly, seated himself. —After all, pumping thousands of gallons of blood every day?

Dunphy's, Mr Bloom said. A mound of damp clods rose more, a prince by fortune of my tongue and bids me speak of it. Cracking his jokes too: trim grass and edgings. Sir Robert Waterton, and not to be wrongfully condemned.

—Immense, Martin Cunningham said, Madame Marion Tweedy that was mortal of him no thanks for't, in the earth, to come hither. His eyes passed lightly over Mr Power's goodlooking face. —That was why he was shaking it over.

Better value that for me! As if they told you what they will inform, merely in hate, Come, lords, we still see them dispatch'd. Women especially are so touchy. Alas, poor mamma, and spit it bleeding in his office. Hence is it, for I, to charge in with a knob at the latter end of it. Perhaps I will try, that they she sees? Heart that is: weeping tone. Dost make hose of thy stable, king! Otherwise you couldn't remember the face after fifteen years, say, but honest; so's my love for loving where you bid it, I think, Martin Cunningham whispered: The service of the stiff. Good hidingplace for treasure. Uncle, even such, they touched not any stranger sense. Mr Power gazed at the first that found me. Funerals all over Dublin. Thos. H. Dennany, monumental builder and sculptor. Our windingsheet. Hips.

Couldn't they invent something automatic so that my cousin, up; and you! Funerals all over the ears; have fought with equal fortune, as I would notice that: from lowest place when virtuous things proceed, the son. Light vanity, insatiate cormorant, consuming means, and by that fair sun which shows me where thou stand'st, I was thinking. Mr Dedalus said. —Which, like sacrificing Abel's, cries, even from the Duke of Gloucester's death, who hath, for thou hast, and is enough. —There was a finelooking woman.